Nobody's Someone
by Working-On-Sanity
Summary: Brock was desperate. Everyone had a 'someone.' He had tried, but failed, in gaining a love - even Ash had a 'someone.' So when the chance comes to touch that boy from Team Rocket, he takes it. James isn't a woman, but that's as close as Brock is getting.
1. Reunion

**NOBODY'S SOMEONE**

**Summary:** Brock was completely and utterly desperate. Everyone had a "someone" in their life. He had tried countless numbers of times, and he constantly failed at gaining a love. Even Ash had a "someone" to bring along to the Johto reunion banquet. So when the opportunity comes to invite that pretty, girlish boy from Team Rocket, Brock doesn't hesitate to take it––James may not be a woman, but that's as close as Brock is going to get.

**Author's Note:** JimShipping needs to be made popular. It's such a sweet pairing. But anything is when compared to Giovanni/Pikachu.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One:<strong> _Reunion_

"Hey..." Ash said sluggishly, his tone drawn out in concentration. He turned the oversized pages of the newspaper loudly, fumbling with the flimsy sheets. The rustling noise overpowered his voice, and as he stared down at the tiny text in the corner of the front page, he distractedly smacked the back of his hand against Brock's shoulder.

"Check this out," he said, still engrossed in reading. Curiously, Brock leaned against his side, squinting his narrow eyes as he scanned the page for some description of an exciting upcoming event.

"Huh," Brock grunted, somewhat impressed. "A Johto reunion banquet?"

Ash nodded sedately. "Yeah––neat, right? All the Trainers that participated in the Johto League are invited to the banquet. Sounds pretty nice," he added, reading the advertisement over again.

Brock snapped his chopsticks into a greasy tangle of instant noodles, poking the limp tangles of chicken-flavored pasta into his mouth as he mulled over the idea of attending the banquet.

"You want to go?" he asked, swallowing. "What about Misty?"

"Sure I want to go." Ash shrugged lightly. "And Misty's going to come, whether we want her to or not. Why do you want to know?"

Brock hummed thoughtfully, drumming his fingertips on the marble counter top. "No reason. I was just wondering who I'd go with, since Misty's your date."

Ash yelped with surprise, indignantly scowling at Brock. "Oh, no! Misty isn't my 'date', she's coming as my friend! Would you call yourself my date if you came along with me?" he retorted.

Brock could not gulp back the short rumble of laughter that grated from his throat. "I'd rather not think of that, Ash," he said dryly. "Dating you isn't exactly there on my list of goals, if you know what I'm talking about."

Ash sulked, moodily cupping his chin in his hands and resting his elbows on the table. "Yeah, well... Misty isn't my girlfriend. Just remember that and I won't make you be my date."

If Ash had been any older than ten, Brock would have discovered great satisfaction in driving his fist into his face as punishment for those insensitive remarks. That being said, though, Brock could understand that Ash was still little more than a child, and claimed some sort of excuse for his naïvely bratty behavior.

"But still, beside all that," Brock said, ignoring the heated glare that Ash was sending him, "I need someone to go with. If you take Misty, who will I take?"

Ash gave a low snort of disapproval, still unsettled by the earlier comment about his relationship with Misty. "I don't _know,"_ he replied testily. "Have you ever gone to a festival or anything like that with a girl? For as long as I've known you, I've never seen you actually on a date."

Brock gave a soft huff of disbelief, shaking his head sympathetically. "Really, Ash. Of course I've brought dates to events, and I'm bringing one to the banquet, too."

Determinedly, he clicked his chopsticks in the air, as if sealing a contract of vow.

Ash closed his teeth over his bottom lip, barring the escape of an amused giggle. The mental image of Brock, sauntering along with a handsome female clinging to his arm, was nearly impossible to conjure. He really didn't believe that Brock would manage gaining the attention from a woman, but he admitted that it would be comforting to know that his traveling companion had the charm that would enable him to allure a mate. He really had no idea what it was that made a man seem appealing to a woman, but whatever it was, he was thoroughly convinced that Brock lacked it.

* * *

><p>"You did what?" Misty squealed in horror, her cerulean eyes narrowing with undisguised fury. Clenching her small fist, her knuckles cracking painfully, she stared directly into the watery depths of Ash's hazel eyes.<p>

"I-I'm really sorry, Misty!" Ash said, genuinely regretful of his decision to bring Misty to the Johto banquet. "I didn't know you'd be so mad about it... I thought you might like going to a fancy dinner!"

Misty slowly raised her hand, closing her short fingers over Ash's round shoulder and squeezing powerfully. The Trainer gave a sharp bark of surprised hurt, squirming beneath the redhead's unrelenting grip.

"I'd like the 'dinner' part!" she snapped. "It's the 'going with you' part that I'm not too thrilled about!" Seething rage, she released Ash's shoulder, and stalked away in order to find a secluded area where she could calm her escalating anger.

A whimper of pain slipped through Ash's gritted teeth as he winced, gingerly touching his fingers to his tender shoulder. He didn't know why the girl enjoyed abusing him so; he had intended the offer to be a kind gesture. Maybe she would have rather gone with Brock––he wasn't sure about what Misty thought of the older teenager, but she certainly seemed to prefer Brock's company over his own.

_In a way, I'm kind of relieved._ He sighed gratefully, watching as Misty's retreating figure gradually depleted in size. _At least there won't be any awkward moments between us. I'd much rather her come as my friend than my date._

"Thank you, Misty!" he called on impulse, his mouth curving in a lopsided, giddy grin. Of course, there was no reply other than the barely noticeable stiffening of Misty's back, but Ash was all the more thankful for it.

* * *

><p>Brock didn't know exactly when he had concluded his errand of grocery shopping. It seemed like a dream, he was so deeply involved in contemplating his situation. He glanced down, somewhat surprised that he had managed to find every necessity that had been required. He supposed that he had become so accustomed to the routine that it demanded very little thought or effort.<p>

Shifting the plastic shopping basket to his other arm, he idly wandered past a large, gaudy display of multicolored Poké Balls and slid into the familiar aisle in which the boxes of small Pokémon biscuits had been meticulously arranged on the shelves.

_Ash needs treats for Bulbasaur_, he reminded himself, merely for the purpose of ensuring that he was still focused on his surroundings. _Misty is almost out of snacks for Staryu, and I wanted some of those new cocoa-flavored biscuits for Onix._

Exhaling deeply, he crouched in front of the bottom shelf, scanning the brightly-colored fronts of the boxes for the Bulbasaur treats.

_Bulbasaur, Bulbasaur_, he mused silently, running his finger across the long line of packages and distractedly reading the labels. He was so engrossed in his task that he wasn't aware enough to halt before his hand knocked roughly into another, eliciting twin choked cries from both parties.

"Excuse me," Brock said automatically, glancing up contritely into two large, emerald-like eyes. The wide orbs were set into a childishly rounded face, the soft cheeks draped by tendrils of coarse lavender hair. Abruptly, Brock jerked his hand backwards and away from the gloved fingers of the innocently blinking teenage boy.

"Why are _you_ here?" he said ferociously, nearly unsettled by the unusual amount of venom in his own tone. At the stricken, helpless expression that passed over the boy's features, Brock began to gather enough courage to apologize again, guilt stabbing his insides.

"I––I didn't mean that," he stammered, gesturing animatedly as he compiled an excuse for his out-of-character rudeness. "I'm sorry. It's just that... I've never seen you anywhere by yourself."

Laughing awkwardly, he raised his hand, scrubbing his palm over his unkempt strands of dark hair.

"I was just trying to find something for my Victreebel," James said softly, his accented voice nearly inaudible. Anxiously, he tore his gaze from Brock's and deliberately turned his head, toying with his shopping basket just to occupy his trembling hands.

Despite being more intelligent than the average young man of his age, Brock would reluctantly admit that the concept of Team Rocket behaving as average citizens had never really rooted in his mind. Whenever he did chance to think of the small group, he would associate them with general wrongdoing and idiocy. He hadn't ever wondered if they were involved in anything other than constant attempts at petty crimes.

"I didn't know you came to the Poké Mart," he blurted lamely, merely for the sake of shattering the suffocating silence. That petrified look in James's turquoise eyes was enough to evoke pity from Brock's conscience––it reminded him of a Pokémon. A small, vulnerable creature that would forever believe that every existing object was intent on his destruction. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to run from the market, abandoning his shopping just to be free from the agonizing sensation of being stared at.

"Ah... um, I always come here," James quietly said, squirming beneath Brock's scrutiny. "Jessie... she, uh, doesn't like to shop very much, so I always come instead... for groceries, and... um... my Victreebel..."

He let the butchered explanation hang unfinished as he realized how utterly foolish he was acting. Painful heat began to prick his cheeks in the familiar form of a flush, and he silently lowered his head to let his lilac forelock slip over his eyes, wishing that his hair could hide his entire face from Brock.

"Oh, that's right, about your Victreebel," Brock said as he remembered, having forgotten that James boasted ownership of the ornery Pokémon. "You needed treats for that thing, didn't you?"

Waving expansively at the selection of flavored flour cakes as James timidly nodded in conformation, he immediately pointed out the desired box in a helpful attempt at easing the others' discomfort.

Not giving any words of gratitude, James passively accepted the package that Brock tucked into his basket, not bothering to hide his surprise at being treated in a gentle manner. He had often seen Brock's displays of kindness toward his companions. For a good reason, though, he had never really believed that Brock would present those same acts toward him. It felt rather strange, though not unpleasant, to have someone speaking to him just for the purpose of showing himself to be friendly.

"Since you're here, why don't you help me look for some Bulbasaur treats?" Brock suggested on impulse, noticing how James tensed at the request. Cautiously, moving as if he was fearful of being touched, James knelt beside Brock and wordlessly obeyed.

"So, why are you around here?" Brock asked kindly, the dense atmosphere of silence threatening to gnaw at his composure. He wasn't entirely comfortable with being so extremely close to the boy who had often patronized his friends, but without the intimidating presence of Jessie to encourage him, James seemed entirely too small and submissive.

"I... well, Meowth saw that advertisement in the newspaper," James mumbled, not looking up directly. "We weren't actually going to the banquet––we were just going to find the kitchen there so we could dig up some food supplies to last a few days. But then we got our paycheck a week earlier than we thought we would, so I'm buying groceries today."

"Oh. So you aren't going?" Brock asked. He was experiencing a series of conflicting emotions, not certain of whether he was glad that Team Rocket would not be attending, or disappointed. Then, the very moment that he decided to tell James exactly that, he was struck. Painfully backhanded across the face by an idea––an idea that he had never before thought he would have. One that, the more he mulled it over, the better it seemed.

"If you aren't going with the others..." he said slowly, still pondering the possible reactions that could be offered to his words. James sent him a wary, sidelong glance, and Brock hurried to continue.

"If you aren't going with your friends, would you like to go with me?"

James froze, the soles of his leather boots seemingly rooted to the linoleum. Brock's request ricocheted through his mind tauntingly, and his senses fell into such a swirl of shock that he didn't realize that Brock stared at him through squinted eyes, concern flicking into his countenance.

"You don't have to," Brock hurried to say. "I'm not pressuring you or anything like that. It's just an offer. An invitation, if you like. You know what I mean?"

Brock knew he had fallen into babbling, a telltale sign of his discomfort.

James self-consciously lifted his hand to twirl a strand of purple hair around his finger, refusing to let Brock see any hint of his distress. He hadn't expected to be asked such a thing; now, he was forced to give an answer. He wished that his paycheck had come in late––if it had, he wouldn't even be in the wretched store, speaking with one of the very people whom he had so often attempted to steal from.

"Guh––go with you?" he repeated blankly, swallowing hard to loosen the tight constricting of his throat. "Go to the banquet with you? But you're one of the twerps!"

It just shot out of his mouth––he had become so accustomed to the term that it was only habitual to use it. He pressed his palm to his mouth in mortification, clenching his fist around the handle of his shopping basket.

Brock tilted his head curiously, not appearing to be overly offended by the comment. "Yeah?"

"No!" James said loudly. "I didn't mean that. I meant, um, to say that I'll go––if I can get permission! Yes. If Jessie will let me go, I will. Tonight, right?"

"Right," Brock smiled, relief overwhelming him and mixing with delight as it spiraled though his midsection. Gratefully, he patted his palm against James's round shoulder in a gesture of thanks, and after pushing several boxes of Pokémon treats into his own basket, stood to his feet and briskly padded away.

_I can't believe it._ Brock panted silently, pressing himself into the unoccupied shadows of an empty aisle. _It actually happened. I was talking to him––I asked him out! What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking at all, that was it. Maybe he won't be rowdy if that girl and the Meowth don't show up. He might not even come... but if he does, that would be my first date. My first date ever..._

_He's a boy._

Brock's breath clogged in his throat.

How he had managed to overlook that vital bit of information, he would never know. James was a boy––perhaps not quite as masculine as most, but very much a boy nonetheless. Why had he even agreed to attend the banquet as another male's date? Brock merely assumed that James had panicked. Would it even be acceptable for him to bring James along? What would Ash say, once he saw that Brock had come accompanied by his enemy?

Shaking his head weakly, Brock felt the glow of his excitement drain from his body. It would have been helpful if those thoughts had decided to plague him earlier, before he came shopping. It had all been on impulse. He hadn't planned anything out whatsoever.

He was so completely and pathetically stupid.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I'm updating this chapter-by-chapter. I see a lot of errors that can be corrected. Also, yes to awkwardness as a plot drive.


	2. Decision to Save

**Author's Note: **Hm. I seem to have lost my vigor. If you could see my keypad, you'd notice that the letters are almost worn off. I'm so proud of myself. My word archive is almost 150,000 words. A mere drop in the bucket.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: <strong>_Decision to Save_

"You did _what_?" Jessie's blue eyes squinted in a daring scowl as she glowered, her lithe body seeming to tower above James's weakly slouching frame. Her long fingers, encased in stiff leather gloves, wavered as she bit back a disgusted mutter of disbelief.

"I'm sorry," James immediately said, staring fitfully down at the rounded toes of his badly scuffed boots. Almost pleadingly, he sent a wayward glace in Meowth's direction, silently begging for assistance. The Pokémon's large, almond-shaped eyes glinted mischievously as he shook his head in declination of the request. His short whiskers twitched as he coyly turned away.

"But what happened?" Jessie continued in her quest for answers. "Why did you ever agree to something like that? You can't spend time with someone. What happens if––and this is a wild theory, here––he _likes _being around you? What are you going to do if he wants to be your friend?"

"That's right," said Meowth, cockily waggling one round paw in disapproval. "You know that's exactly why us three stays together. If you're gonna get friends, you're gonna get into trouble. They'd distract you from what's important. It'd be a li'l bit different if you was goin' to the banquet dinner with someone else, but with one of them twerpy kids?"

"Don't." James raised his hand, pressing his palm against the essence of being chided for his actions. "I couldn't help it, okay? He asked me to go. I wasn't going to tell him no. He needed someone to go with, Meowth." He directed the explanation to the Scratch Cat, knowing Meowth would be much easier to pacify than Jessie.

"I don't _care,_" Jessie said with a groan, feeling the pressure of pure fury swelling prominently in her breasts. "Whatever the brat said doesn't matter. He can't manipulate you into doing something you know you shouldn't be."

With this said, she nodded sagely.

James watched in silence as Jessie spun on her heel, the soles of her boots squeaking sharply against the linoleum tile as she huffily slunk away to delve in her misfortunes.

"You know what I mean, right, Meowth?" James asked, his voice escalating with shameful hope. His green eyes fixed on the Meowth before the cat made a swipe at his knee, only half in jest.

"I don't," Meowth replied testily, his gravelly voice sounding more akin to a rasping purr than words. "You know what you're s'posed to do. Why'd'ya always have to make things worse on yourself? I don't like to see you get hurt, and that's what's gonna happen, if you get too close to anyone who doesn't think the same way that we do. They don't like us, James––and what if the guy does something to hurt you?"

Fondly, James regarded the way Meowth's soft tail curled around his shin, certain of the Pokémon's affection for him. He wanted to adhere to Meowth's advice. But the worst thought present in his clouded mind was the one of Brock, being disappointed and crestfallen that he'd been deceived. James didn't want that to happen. He wanted to be considered a trustworthy young man. He wanted Brock to tell people that he was dependable. Compliments like that never swept past Jessie's crimson lips––he didn't really know why he wanted to hear them from Brock, though.

"I'm so sorry, Meowth," he apologized once more, kneeling to run the pads of his fingers over the sleek fur of the creature's velvety brown ear. "But I did tell Brock that I would be his date. And I want to go... not because he asked me to, but... I think it might be nice to be with somebody different. You know?"

Meowth's whiskers appeared to droop as he mulled over the concept of James––tenderhearted, untainted James––interacting with someone in an intimate manner. Meowth knew who Brock was: not very old or too experienced was the Breeder, but there was something curious about his habits. He seemed to enjoy touching things, Pokémon as well as people. He was straightforward and rather something of a playboy, but nonetheless he kept his quirks mainly to himself.

Meowth also knew who James was: young and yet still firmly set in his ways. His customs were just as unusual as Brock's, though not nearly as undesirable––it was an unhidden pleasure of his to deviate from normal stereotypes. He was none too shy about sharing clothes with Jessie, and he often changed his opinions as soon as someone bade him to do so. He was never firmly established in what he believed, so the very instant that someone voiced their own view on a matter, he decided to take their perspective as his own, just to lessen the chance of being challenged.

Despite being little more than a somewhat humanoid Pokémon, Meowth could do the addition and know all too well what that could suggest. From what little he had observed of Brock, he knew that Brock had a great chance of lavishing _too _much attention on James, especially if the latter decided to display himself in soft lace ruffles and gingham petticoats. And the dominated, obedient little numbskull would go along with it, too gentle and soft-spoken to protest.

"Whatever." Meowth snorted, pushing James's hands away from his ear. His touch lingered, sending small buzzes of electric warmth to sizzle beneath his fur. If James caressed Brock in such a motherly way, would it affect him so? Meowth brutally yanked the idea free from pondering and shoved it away into the back of his mind to return to later.

"Go on your date," he callously said. "Find Jessie's makeup case and slather the mess on. Pretend that you're a girl. Flirt with him all you can. Don't push him back when he starts gettin' touchy, 'cause it's gonna feel good when he first starts. But just make sure not to come back, cryin' to me, when the heartless brat dumps you in the gutter behind the stinking alley."

James rocked back on his heels, stunned into silence. He had never before been witness to such sharp, fiery terms from the cat. Meowth rarely used a vulgar way of speech, especially shot at him––had it truly been he that provoked Meowth to such an extent that he had been forced to verbally vent his frustration?

"M––Meowth?" It felt as though his ribs had shattered, the bone fragments embedding themselves in the bruised lining of his chest. The effect was soon present in his eyes, the spheres of emerald glistening with moisture. A persistent, unforgiving bulge began to expand in the core of his throat, denying him permission to choke it back.

Tears––why was it that they came so easily? Why was he so sensitive to the mildest of remarks?

He hated crying with a fierce intensity. That enmity became more evident when Meowth swung about to glare at him, depressed wrath darkening his countenance as a noiseless warning to keep quiet. To rub his tears dry. Blubbering over a matter seldom, if ever, truly resolved it.

"I'm serious, James," Meowth said wearily. "Go on. Your date's tonight. Find something to wear. Pick out a blouse to go with whatever you're wearin'. Just hurry and leave me be for awhile."

James did as he was commanded, everything around him blurring distractingly as hot liquid welled in the corners of his eyes. It _stung. _Even Meowth refused to acknowledge his burning desire for _someone_. He didn't have a preference for whom. He just wanted someone who wouldn't nudge him away when he wanted to rest his head on her shoulder. Who wouldn't snap at him when he whined. Who would never lure him close by promises of friendship, then forget about him the next day.

He fumbled to bolt the door to his room, the weathered brass lock shrieking as he snapped it into place. Leaning tiredly against the flimsy door, he let his eyelids flutter shut, wetness gluing his lashes together. He could hear the heater sputtering and coughing beneath the open window, and from somewhere outside, the distinctive whistle of Kricketot was scratching through the air. There was noise––Jessie and Meowth wouldn't be able to hear him.

Clambering carelessly onto the mattress that had been pushed against the wall, he jerked the terrycloth blanket over his head, smashing his nose into the pillow. The sound of muffled whimpers floated into the atmosphere, and it only served to further provoke James's conscience that he was the only one in his closely knit group of friends that was pitiful enough to actual reveal his miseries to others.

* * *

><p>Brock was fidgety, and Ash noticed this. He questioned Brock once or twice about the reason of his sudden melancholy, but when he was given no simple answer, decided to abandon the pursuit of an actual reply. But Brock's Pokémon were not as easily deviated from their goal––quite soon after his return from the Poké Mart, the creatures were portraying much the same attitude as their trainer––sulky and contemplative.<p>

"Are you _sure _I didn't do it?" Ash prodded. He huffily dropped his chin to rest in his cupped palms, sighing with undisguised boredom. He was hungry. He hadn't noticed that he depended solely on Brock for meals. It had just been one of those things that he never realized happened until it stopped.

"It's fine, Ash," Brock dismissed airily. "I was just thinking about tonight, is all."

He immediately wished that he had not been honest with sharing his inner musings.

"Tonight?" Ash repeated flatly. "The banquet? Wait... you _found _someone who's going with you?"

Slowly, a wicked grin maneuvered across his face, and he cattily waggled his fingers in teasing.

Brock chose to ignore the boy's foolishness.

"I did," he said. "I've got a date. Told you I would."

A self-satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as he conceitedly crunched his hands into fists, pressing them to his hips tauntingly.

"Wow," Ash drawled. "I didn't expect that. Thought it would take you much longer, if you found one at all. I was waiting for you to come back so you tell me how many women you terrorized."

"Well, I guess that grants me one hearty 'ha-ha.' I proved you wrong, though." There was a pause. "I don't 'terrorize' women."

Pretending to pout over the previous jibe, Brock turned back to his business, snatching up the soaked cloth he was using to polish the china dishes he carried in his canvas knapsack. Plates clattered, overpowering the sniveling sound of Ash's voice.

"Is it anyone I know?" Ash acted as if he were fully enveloped in studying a stalk of grass. He stole a glance at Brock's back, and was rewarded by an uncaring grunt.

"Nope."

Ash snorted peevishly. _He's fibbing_, he thought. _I'll bet he's asked some really creepy lady to come. Going to make me jealous so I think he's going with a pretty girl._

"Whatever," he said nonchalantly, lowering himself to rest on his stomach so he could more closely inspect the blade of grass. "I guess I'll see her tonight, then."

Abruptly, Brock became still, halting in his movements. The unceremonious quiet made Ash look up, but when he did, Brock resumed washing the chipped dessert plate.

_See her tonight._

The Breeder inwardly groaned, raising his shoulders involuntarily as he flinched. _Can't wait to see Ash's face when he really does see "her." It's too late to tell James he can't come, though. I wonder if he's coming in a disguise? Ash won't know the difference if he's dressed up. Yeah. That's how it's going to be. He'll be there dressed like an aristocrat or a tourist or something. No one will recognize him, anyway._

Fairly comforted by the presumption, he let himself bid the anxiety farewell.

* * *

><p>James was in a flurry of activity. Without the disconcerting presence of his companions, he discovered that his chores passed a great deal quicker than normal. It surprised him how relaxing it was to leisurely pick through his suitcase for something to wear, not having Jessie breathing down his shirt collar or Meowth pretending to be embarrassed by the fact that there were more slips and stockings in his possession than slacks and suit coats.<p>

He gingerly extracted a rumpled corduroy skirt from the depths of the suitcase, frowning at its state. He still wasn't sure about what he was going to do for that evening. He wanted to look decent, so Brock could tell that he was compliantly eager to attend the event with him. But, if he happened to dress himself too extravagantly, Brock was apt to be discouraged at his apparent excitement.

There was also the matter of identity. He wanted to refrain from camouflage, in any case. If he hid himself in the cloak of another personality, Brock might believe that he was ashamed to be around him. But if he allowed himself to be shown to the majority as "James", then there was the chance that they would realize him as a member of the Rocket Organization.

There was also the matter of both him and Brock being male. He could dishonor Brock's name permanently by revealing himself––a simple date was so oddly, cruelly confusing.

Helplessly, he sank to the mattress, not bothering to push the mounds of clothing away before sitting. A maelstrom of nervousness swirled angrily through his stomach. He hadn't thought about the consequences of his decision earlier––if he had, it would have frightened him so greatly that he would have completely refused to accompany Brock.

_I could make one mistake and hurt him. _James frowned, sucking his lip into his mouth to chew lightly at the soft flesh_. But it's too late to go find him and tell him that I can't make it. It'd be stupid to do that, anyway. I can't back out of everything._

With a determined exhale, he stood, yanking the tan corduroy miniskirt from beneath him as he did so. It was repairable. The wrinkles could be smoothed, and the material was thick enough to hide his lack of a curvaceous figure.

_It can be fixed_, he thought. _I hope that if I mess up tonight, though, that it can be fixed, as well._

* * *

><p>By the time evening descended over the Johto region, Brock had roused himself into undiluted worry. Often, he would pace to the window of the small hotel, staring over the tops of buildings and into the foggy distance.<p>

It was cold outside. Frost coated everything in a glistening, clear sheen of thin ice. Darkness had scurried along quite rapidly, leaving the stars behind in its haste. Wispy rolls of charcoal-like clouds hid any terrestrial light, but flashing neon signs and glowing advertisement boards brightened the city's pathways in soft pools of pink, purple, and green.

He sighed, pressing his forehead to the chilled glass of the window. He didn't know why he felt so nauseated. Maybe it was because James's arrival would signify the beginning of his initiatory date, and he was wasting that one-time occasion on a fellow young man. A young man that he barely knew, to make matters worse.

"Stupid," he muttered out loud, grimacing at his own behavior. He lightly banged his forehead against the window, the glass rattling.

There wasn't anything left for him to do in order to prepare for the banquet. He had habitually wheeled through his hygienic routine, bathing and remembering to shave away the rough patches of short dark whiskers that spread over his jaw.

He had meticulously garbed himself in the only tuxedo he owned, pressing the creases from the starched white shirt and making doubly sure to fasten each plastic button. He had gotten Ash to straighten his necktie beneath the folds of his collar, and also to assist him in buffing his seldom-worn Oxford shoes, shining the black leather until it gleamed without being coaxed.

To prove his devotion to the ordeal, he had even persuaded Misty to let him use a bit of her scented perfume. Its odor was considerably masculine, heavy with the spiciness of mint and cloves. He had spritzed the warm-smelling liquid over the sleeves of his coat––in any other situation, that would have been solely for the purpose of enveloping his date in the sweet scent when he looped his arm around her.

He didn't realize he had done it until afterward, though.

"Gee, James," he griped, peering past the glare that reflected from the window. Mist clung to the atmosphere, enough to concern the citizens who were transporting themselves to the banquet by way of automobile. He vaguely wondered if the walk to the dining hall would be brief enough to bypass donning his leather jacket.

"Hey! Brock!" Ash's call split through the emptiness of the room, rattling Brock from his grumbling. He turned, briskly stepping to the door of the bedroom and jerking it open.

"What is it, Ash?" he snapped, squeezing the doorknob with all the force he could muster. Ash appeared very taken aback by the crude response, a look of surprise flitting across his rounded face. Suddenly shy, he scraped his fingernail across the side of his chubby cheek, hazel eyes darting warily.

"Um... there's a girl downstairs in the lobby. She says she wants to see you."

Brock froze.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I think I may like BlueShipping a bit more than JimShipping. But James is a cutie no matter who he's swapping spit with. Even––dare I say it––Jessie. Yeahhh.


	3. Night of Snow

**Author's Note: **Oh my _yes_. I just found the _Maiden's Peak _episode. If you have not seen it, watch it for the juiciest piece of canon JimShipping ever.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: <strong>_Night of Snow_

James rather liked the company of that little boy––Ash Ketchum. When Ash wasn't shrieking at him, he made for a mannerly, well brought up child. Ash had been particularly kind to him, and although James was sure that it was because he didn't recognize him, he still enjoyed being coddled. The red-haired girl was quite courteous, as well, an interesting change from her normal temperamental self.

Uncomfortably, he glanced about the lobby of the inn. Classy burgundy carpets were plush beneath the bottoms of his penny loafers, and the walls were a deep crimson, lined with enormous framed photographs and portraits. If Brock could afford a stay in a hotel as flamboyant as this, that most certainly meant that he was accustomed to being present at conventional ceremonies and such. James had never even participated in a public dinner party outside of the ones held in his own home as a child.

Gazing down at his skirt, he carefully smoothed the heavy khaki-colored corduroy over his thigh. After spending long minutes pondering over what outfit to wear, he had decided to dress himself simply but tastefully. A plain blue sweater hung loosely from his thin frame, and a white silk scarf wrapped neatly around his neck. Cotton stockings fit like gloves over his slender legs, disappearing into the small black shoes––nothing very fancy or expensive, but at the same time, artistic and clean.

"Here she is, Brock," Ash was saying excitedly––his small hands gripped Brock's, tugging the older boy from the elevator and dragging him into the foyer. James quickly looked up, straightening his posture and self-consciously raking his fingers through his hair. Wisps of lavender protruded from his scalp in every direction as he nervously regarded Brock's countenance.

"H––hello," Brock greeted stiffly, plastering a cheerful smile on his face. Politely, he clamped his arms to his sides and gave a short bow, acknowledging his date without really interacting with him.

Ash's expression faltered with bemusement at the impossibly fast way Brock had dismissed the short green-eyed girl. Something really had to have affected Brock in such a way that he wasn't attempting to fondle the young woman. If it had been anywhere else, Ash was sure that Brock would be leaning over her the best he could, intentionally making himself eye-level with her chest.

Admittedly, though, the purple-haired girl was considerably lacking a bosom full enough to push out the front of her navy shirt, and her hips and legs weren't all that slanted by healthy curves. But, despite her apparently boyish stick-like physique, she was still quite pleasing to look at.

"So," Ash said, racking his mind for something to comment on just to crush the absence of conversation. "Hey, lady––you're Brock's date, huh? Where did you meet him?"

James pressed his fingertip to his cheek, biting back the heat that powdered his skin. _Lady_? Clearing his throat, he awkwardly shifted from side to side, acutely aware of the way his miniskirt stretched tightly across his pelvis.

"Met him in the Poké Mart." Bashfully, reminding himself that he was playing a lovestruck female, he nudged a rippling giggle past his glossed lips and let his voice click into the well-practiced falsetto of a woman. The result was so convincing that Brock had to look up to make sure that it was really James who was speaking.

"The Poké Mart?" Ash repeated. "I thought so. Brock likes to go there a lot." He beamed up at Brock who stood silently beside him.

"But anyway, I'm glad you two met," he added. "What's your name, again, ma'am?"

James blanched, not having anticipated that particular question. _James, James, James..._ he raked at all his knowledge of feminine names.

"Jane," he replied, stirring up a sweetly adoring grin. He crouched down to gently pat the top of Ash's head, playfully knocking the Trainer's cap askew. This was so _strange, _being with these people––the people that he, Jessie, and Meowth so often attempted to hurt––but even so, he found himself enjoying it. Ash and Misty were only children. They were oblivious to the inner turmoil that was torturing their elders––they only sought to welcome James, inviting him into their lives with open arms.

But Brock stood to the side. Almost disapprovingly, he observed as Ash happily babbled on. James knelt beside him, the short skirt enhancing the roundness of his backside and revealing only a strip of his undergarments––not appearing to notice that his cotton petticoat was being subjected to Brock's watchful eyes, James continued to listen attentively as Ash animatedly explained how he had gone about the task of capturing a rampant Tauros.

_Why did I ever want to _do _this? _Brock wondered ruefully, respectfully averting his gaze. _I'm taking a boy who's dressed in a skirt to a formal banquet... he doesn't even look fit enough to go for a meal at a fast-food restaurant. Looks more like a flashy street girl than anything else._

Had it been anyone else––Joy, Jenny, Suzi, or even _Misty, _he would have tolerated it. Liked it, even. He loved the way a woman would clad herself in thin blouses that perfectly cupped her breasts, showing off the bouncing heavy globes. It made him a bit dizzy when she would wear the tiniest of skirts, displaying the shapely contours of her long legs.

James didn't have either. The sweater further proved that there was nothing arousing about his flat chest. His body was shaped like the number 'one', straight up and down with not even a slight bulging of his hips. His legs were slender, not boasting any soft planes or angles––there was absolutely nothing about him that made saliva pool in the bottom of Brock's mouth or heat gyrate in his belly.

"Well," Brock finally said. Urging himself from those less than soothing thoughts, he drew the small group's attention to rest on him. The dulled glimmer in James's round emerald eyes was one of quizzical patience.

"It's almost time to leave," Brock said briskly, ignoring James. "The dining hall is letting the guests come in half an hour, so pack your things." Shooing Ash and Misty away, advising the latter to comb out the tangles in her auburn hair before they left, Brock primly stood in the threshold, squinting at the digital clock on the receptionist's desk.

"Um..." James followed Brock's action, standing and brushing nonexistent debris from his clothing. When Brock craned his neck to stare at him, he hastened to blurt out an apology.

"I'm sorry."

The two words reminded Brock of early that morning, nearly identical to the first sentence he had exchanged with the older man: weak and contrite.

"What for?" Brock asked flatly, cringing at how spitefully uncaring he sounded. He chided himself relentlessly––James had been kind enough to put himself in a position like this. To be a girl, just to bring happiness to someone he was, for the most part, unacquainted with. Brock could at least express some manner of gratitude, no matter how terribly this was embarrassing him.

"I'm sorry for making this hard on you, already, before the actual date's even started," James mumbled. "See how it's turning out, so far? I can't even dress right––you and the little ones look so nice, yet here I am, looking like some sort of cheap working girl."

"You like kids, then?" Brock murmured.

"Mm-hm. I mean, I do," James corrected himself. "Jessie tells me that it's dreadfully odd, and something that a doting housewife would say. But, if anything––if I was ever able to retire from Team Rocket, I'd want to work with children. Maybe being a kindergarten teacher would be fun."

The mentally developed image of James, reading a storybook to a cluster of toddlers and lovingly enduring the way they would tug at his hair or apron, made a small portion of Brock's bitterness dissolve.

"You'd be good at that," he said quietly. Moments passed before he spoke again.

"You don't like to offend people, do you?"

Snorting indignantly, James tilted his head superiorly, his cattiness shining through even his nervous exterior.

"No. But that doesn't mean I can't if I don't want to––"

"It doesn't," Brock interrupted. "And you shouldn't be judged on your ability to hurt people. But that's one of the reasons why I decided to ask you to be with me tonight."

James fell silent, listening in awe as Brock gave way to explaining his thoughts.

"I knew that you wouldn't slap me away," Brock confided at last. "That's why I started talking to you––not to take advantage of you, but because I knew that you could be trusted with something sensitive like that. I knew that you'd come if I asked. Didn't think for a second that you would lie to me."

James knew that it was only custom to, in turn, offer the works of his mind to Brock. But he couldn't think. All he heard was Brock praising him. Praising him for something he in no way deserved.

"I..."

"Okay, Brock!"

Thundering down the stairs with Misty clattering close behind, Ash waved at his companion, signaling that they were ready to leave. His red-and-white cap had disappeared, exposing his painstakingly brushed clumps of thick, uneven black hair. Misty's tendrils of red had also been tidied, now framing her face in soft waves rather than being pinned to the crown of her head.

"Nice, guys." Brock smiled his approval, flashing the two a fatherly thumbs-up. Instantly forgetting that James had been very close to saying something, he looped his arm around both Ash's and Misty's shoulders, guiding them from the lobby.

James was thrown into another hurricane of disappointment, realizing that he had been instantaneously neglected the moment that the children had entered the room. Brock led them out the door, not sparing a backwards glance––feeling his exultation deflate, James trudged uselessly behind the three.

* * *

><p>Meowth felt tired. He hadn't closed his eyes the entire day. As a feline, it was only instinct that drugged his alertness, making him drowsy, but he refused to meander into the room where James slept to crawl into one of his suitcases. If he managed to do so without getting caught, Meowth would always nap buried beneath a pile of the boy's clothing––the soft scent of James seldom failed in luring him to sleep.<p>

But he wouldn't rest. Not tonight. Not until James actually stepped through the front door and Meowth could drift into semi-consciousness while curling into his lap. His whiskers wriggled in anticipation as he pressed the pads of his paws to the windowpane, round eyes darting as if searching for any sign of his friend.

"What are you looking for, Meowth?" Jessie asked, leaning against the back of the sofa disinterestedly. She crossed her legs, deliberately pretending that she held no ounce of care for either James or Meowth.

"I ain't looking for nothing," Meowth dolefully said. "Just waitin'. Don't like sittin' here without James. It feels weird not having him around to bother me."

"Do you think that _I _like it any better?" Jessie snapped waveringly. Ferociously, she jammed the toe of her boot into the battered linoleum floor, the violent motion causing loose threads of strawberry-red hair to fall over her forehead.

Surprised, Meowth turned to peer up at her. "You never said anything," he reminded. "Didn't think that you even knew he was gone. You didn't tell him g'bye, you know."

As if she had only then realized that she had given away her secret, Jessie clamped her jaw shut, her teeth meeting with a reverberating click.

"I don't miss _him_," she lied. "It's just that...the _things_ that he does that I'm missing right now. You and I can't do a thing by ourselves. We don't know how to cook when we actually do have groceries––James always does it. If we did try to clean up after ourselves, we wouldn't know where to start. He does everything for us around the house––I know he's not staying away for long, but... I don't know," she muttered, frustrated by her incapability to communicate.

"It's... a stupid feeling. Like he isn't coming back. You know how a little kid will cry when his parents leave, like they're never going to pick him up from daycare? Even when he _knows _for sure, without doubt that they will? That's how it feels."

Meowth let his chin fall to his forearms, a deep sigh pushing through his throat as he stared outside at the loose leaves that were scuttling along the ground, driven by the swirls of wind.

"That's the same thing I was thinkin'," he mumbled. "And I can't stand it no more. I don't trust them kids any further than I can throw 'em. 'Specially not that Brock. And I hate the thought of James bein' with them all night at some uptight, fancy party. Rich snobs everywhere. Not to say that James _isn_'_t _a rich snob, or _was, _at least, but still––makes me sorta sick to know that he's gonna be with 'em like that."

Jessie slouched further, the very concept squelching her mood into the worst of states. It wasn't hard to believe. She wouldn't openly admit it to Meowth––or anyone else––but she had cried earlier. She had cried about James giving his evening to _Brock_. It was something abnormal. She, James, and Meowth had agreed that Team Rocket came first, and now, James treated that vow as if it were nothing.

At first, she had asked herself if she was merely jealous––maybe she was. She still wasn't sure. But it was something more bitter than envy devouring her interiors. It was cold, feeling as if it was freezing her from the inside out––the entire sensation was ominous, like black clouds crawling in front of a blindingly white sun.

"I ain't gonna sit here no more," Meowth said suddenly, stirring himself to a sitting position. He tightly gripped the windowsill. Glancing down at his fat paws, he realized that his claws had emerged from their sheaths to embed themselves into the painted wood.

"Where are you going?" Jessie's dusky blue eyes flickered with caution as she stepped aside, not wanting to be in an irritated Meowth's path. He was spiteful at best––when livid, though, he made well use of his defense methods.

"I'm gonna go down to that rotten dining hall to find Jimmy––where do you _think _I'm goin'?"

Determinedly, he bounced from the bench, padding to the door. In one practiced leap, he hooked his paws over the knob, twisting his body just enough to rotate it. A soft click sounded, and he dropped soundlessly to the floor, slamming his foot into the panel of oak. Noisily, the door burst open, rattling into the side of the porch.

A prickling gush of icy air raced into the small room, chills slithering across Jessie's bare legs. It whipped her hair against her cheeks, and pulled Meowth's bristles backwards––tiny crystalline flakes of powder was thrown against her skin, where it quickly thawed into droplets of cold water. The flecks of white clung to Meowth's pale fur, like miniature icicles coating each cream-colored hair.

"Startin' to snow," he pointed out. Raising his arm to shield his sensitively large eyes from the driving blast, he jerked the door closed in his wake, bounding down the rickety porch stairs.

Jessie watched the cat disappear. His image quickly became lost in the mist, fading into only a dark smudge of shadow.

Miserably, she hugged herself, rubbing her palms along her frost-nipped skin. She was going to go burrow into her blankets, just to let warmth caress her from head to toe. If she slept, she could forget about James. Sleep would mercifully numb her mind enough to give her relief from pondering over the foolishness of her companion.

* * *

><p>James had never seen such an imposing building. To call it a 'dining hall' served to be a tremendous injustice––it more closely resembled a museum or institution. It towered far above the street lamps that lined the sidewalks, the metal poles like matchsticks when compared to the mansion. The peaked roof seemed to merge with the black sky, only the glistening sheen of frost separating the chimneys from the clouds.<p>

The structure itself was constructed entirely of crimson bricks, paneled with white plastic siding. It was bathed in the gentle blue hue of twilight, but the uncovered windows beamed with an inviting orange glow. The merry hums of laughter and conversation filtered outside, only adding to eagerness that lifted the spirits of the small assembly.

The night was fascinating.

James trembled inside the folds of his sweater, pulling his neck kerchief more tightly around his collar to ward off the teasing breeze that tickled his exposed flesh. Frigid air poked beneath his skirt, and he distractedly reached down to tug the fabric against his leg.

"All right," Brock said, holding up a hand in warning as Ash and Misty began to chatter between themselves excitedly.

"I want you two to stay together," he ordered. "Ash, don't leave Misty by herself. And Misty, please make sure Ash behaves. Make sure you show your manners. I don't want to be booted out of here on account of you both."

He cocked an eyebrow, questioning their ability to maintain a decent image.

"Where will _you _be?" Misty said accusingly. "You _do _need a chaperone to stay with you. Right, Ash?"

Ash giggled, but immediately sobered as Brock scowled.

"Misty," the Breeder said sternly, "I'm sure I can keep an eye on myself. _Jane_ and I are only eating dinner together. I can assure you that neither one of us will try anything unacceptable."

The girl frowned in embarrassment at having her impertinence emphasized, and all too eagerly spun around on her heel to pinch Ash's ear between her fingers, leading him into the warm entryway like a master hauling a struggling canine behind her on a leash.

"Don't pay any attention them," Brock advised wryly, not looking backwards at James. "They don't know when it's best to keep quiet."

"It's fine," James said, merely for the sake of saying something. Then, wondering if his words had been too curt, he continued.

"I like them. Especially the girl. She reminds me of Jessie."

Pityingly, Brock allowed the information to implant itself in his mind. Remembering his vow to be more long-suffering with the abused teenager, he slowly extended his hand toward James.

Puzzled, James tilted his head, lilac bangs stroking his cheeks as he moved. The cold weather seemed to be paying its toll on his reflexes––he stared at Brock's smooth palm in bewilderment, his gaze tracing the intricate creases that lined the bronze skin.

Impatiently, Brock moved for James, closing his fingers around the girth of his small wrist and looping James's arm with his own. He courageously attempted to close his senses to the way James's gloved fingers curled instinctively into his forearm, holding onto him with all the dignity he could muster.

"Just let's go," he muttered. James nodded dumbly, tightly clenching the ironed sleeve of Brock's jacket. He wanted to let go and to shove his hands into his pockets, but as long as Brock was flaunting his control, he wouldn't object. It was best to have someone else work things out, anyway––when he was not able to exaggerate being in command, he would rather have someone else make the decisions for him.

* * *

><p>If the outside of the dining hall was majestic, than the interior was stunning. If something could be purchased plated in gold or silver, it was present in that room. It made the hotel in which Brock was boarding appear to be a cardboard box.<p>

"This is nice." Brock whistled, suddenly keen on the idea of spending the evening in such a place. He glanced about the area critically; when James stole a sideways peek at Brock's face, he could see how the light from the chandeliers enhanced Brock's somber, intelligent expression.

"I guess Ash and Misty have already found the sushi bar." Brock sighed in mock sorrow. "There are so many people here that it'd be hard to find them.

"Well," he said dismissively, brushing James's hand from his elbow, "I guess that leaves the afternoon to us, then. As soon as we find a place to sit, we can get something to eat, too."

James abruptly felt a hundred feet tall and very awkward. That kind of awkward which makes a body believe that he is nude, on a stage, standing before an audience of millions. He _knew _that there was an unfathomable chance that no guest at the banquet would recognize him as a boy, but even with that equation rattling through his mind, he began to question the entire concept of being in the presence of so many people.

"Okay." He swallowed back his paranoia and stuck closely to Brock's back, falling in synchronized step with him. He refused to let his clumsiness emerge to unite with his anxiety, and, like a short shadow, made sure that Brock's figure would hide him from view by pressing against his shoulder blades.

When Brock halted at table in the dimly lit corner of the room, James's nose knocked painfully into the back of his head. Twin masks of embarrassed hurt flickered across their features, and Brock peevishly gestured to the cushioned chair as he massaged his neck.

"You can sit down," he said gruffly. After a second of pondering, he stepped to the side of the table, tugging the chair out politely. James gave a wobbly smile of gratitude, lowering himself into the seat––the instant he sat, his skirt pulled up far enough to seem like he was wearing no form of covering. Gawkily, he fumbled with the hem of the miniskirt, soon abandoning the struggle for the option of covering his lap with his outspread hands.

Brock observed the one-sided scuffle with mild interest, closing his teeth over his lower lip to bar the escape of a chuckle. He was doing quite well, keeping his humored state hidden, until James craned his neck to gape up at him.

Then he couldn't hold it in. His cheeks swelled dangerously, before he let himself spit out a resonating snicker so deep it seemed to bubble from his stomach. James only stared, mild shock evident in his widened eyes. He was petrified for only the briefest moment––but, as the comedy of the incident sank in, he laughed, too. Not as boldly as Brock, but an ashamed, blushing hum that sounded almost like an apology.

The simple action seemed to eat away at the tension between them like a destructive acid. As if the mild hilarity had massaged the tightness from both men, they each in turn gave a palliated little purr of contentment.

"I'm going to look for the kids." Brock smiled, exceedingly pleased that the grin no longer needed to be forced. With a last murmured huff of amusement, he turned away, sliding into the buzzing crowd in search of his young troupe.

* * *

><p>Meowth stayed hidden. It had been difficult to get into the Johto Hall––though Pokémon weren't banned from entering the building, it had been almost impossible to constantly dash between the legs of unwary people. As fast as he had been traveling on all fours, zipping between the ankles of oblivious men and women, his unprotected tail had still been trod upon numerous times.<p>

Now, he crouched, stomach pressing against the carpet floor as he huddled beneath the thick folds of a curtain drape. It wasn't too hard to detect his presence––the ones who did notice paid little attention to the trembling cat.

_Blast it all._ He scowled, grinding his claws into the upholstery. _I can't see James anywhere. I saw the little boy, Ash, come up to the sushi bar with that girl, so they're _all_ here somewhere. If I see Brock, though, I'm gonna scrape his eyeballs out._

His muzzle wrinkled as he snarled. _If James knew any better, he'd be at home with me an' Jess. The little two-timing, double-crossing, sissy of a slut.  
><em>

Angrily, he scrubbed the warm pad of his paw against his closed eyelid. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to run through the crowd to find James, just to bury his nose into the soft locks of sweet-smelling hair.

What incensed him most, though, was the concept of _Brock _nuzzling those same tendrils of silky lavender. If anyone else had been in Brock's stead, Meowth would have hated them with the exact same malice. He would allow _no one _to touch James familiarly––James belonged to _Team Rocket. _He belonged to Meowth, to Jessie, to their promise of winning Ash's Pikachu––not someone else. No one other than Team Rocket could make any claim to ownership of James.

_Just you wait, you big ugly twerp,_ Meowth swore, feeling the ragged fur along his back stiffen with rage. _I'm lettin' it slip, just this once, 'cause you ain't really bothered us before. It's always been that little twerp that's messed with us. So I'm giving you this one chance. But you make the wrong move with Jimmy? If you touch him, if you hurt him, if you make him cry? I'll make sure that you ain't never gonna be able to see again._

* * *

><p>Brock sauntered leisurely toward the expansive buffet counter, musing to himself about the superior appearance of the sushi rolls. Culinary arts interested him, especially foreign ones such as from Japan. Curiously, he leaned closer to inspect the slices of seafood biscuits.<p>

"Looks great, right?"

Startled by the well-known voice, Brock jerked his head up, surprised to see Gary Oak joining him in admiring the elegant food.

"Hi, Gary," he greeted warily. He had noticed an obvious change in the boy's personality during the Johto League, but was unsure of whether or not Gary still claimed the new, compassionate attitude.

"I didn't know that you were here." The Researcher smiled, though he stared past Brock's shoulder, not at all focused on the idle chatter. "Did, uh... did Ash come?"

Suddenly, Brock understood. Of course Gary would be looking for Ash. He nodded serenely, not too concerned about the idea of Gary running off to find him. If anything, it would keep Gary from being a nuisance to himself and James.

"Yeah, he's somewhere around here with Misty," he reported. "I'm sure he'd be glad to see you. Why don't you go talk to him for a while?"

Gary shrugged, but seemed to consider the suggestion.

"As long as I'm not bothering him too much. See you later, Brock." He waved in departure, fiddling with the lapel of his overcoat as he ambled away.

"Bye," Brock replied, more intent on gathering a small platter of sushi and noodles to carry back to his table. Once the china tray had been piled with rice balls, bean paste filled rolls, and syrup-coated flour cakes, he gathered a pair of dainty napkin wrapped chopsticks and weaved through the crowd to return to James.

"Here," he said, sliding the silver-plated tray onto the table. Flecks of rice tumbled from the hill of delicacies, and James appeared taken aback by the enormous amount of extravagant gourmet. He didn't move until Brock slipped a set of wooden chopsticks between his fingers––then, as if wisdom had just bloomed in his mind, he eagerly clapped his hands together with a grateful murmur of, "Thank you for the food."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I think something's wrong. I'm losing interest in _Naruto_. That has not happened before. So now I'm into P-monz? Eep. Also, what's with the PalletShipping? ...I love PalletShipping.


	4. Same in Heart, Paradox Spirits

**Author's Note: **HeartGold womps. What do you mean, no Meowth? I adore Meowth. They're so cute! But I'm allergic to cats.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: <strong>_Same in Heart, Paradox Spirits_

Ash didn't realize that there was someone standing very close to his side. He first took notice of the stranger when a tall shadow swept over his plate, dimming his view of the tofu squares he crammed into his mouth.

"Hi, Ashy-boy." A fond laugh filtered through the air, and Ash stiffened at the nickname that had, once, been used as an insult.

"Nice to see you, Gary," he said dryly, the words muffled by the tofu that he packed into his ballooned cheeks. He didn't need to see it to know that Gary was pulling a chair up to sit in, clearly uninvited.

Although Ash didn't particularly _dislike _Gary, he didn't really hold him in such high standards, either. Admittedly, Gary had improved with relationships since their escapades in Pallet Town, but Ash wasn't going to take any chances on being teased in front of such a large number of people.

"Hello, Gary!" Taking it upon herself to initiate interaction, Misty bestowed a friendly smile upon the boy and nodded happily.

"You can sit with us. Ash doesn't mind. Do you, Ash?" she asked wickedly, as Ash began to slump in his seat.

"Nah-ah, I don't mind a'tall," he sarcastically said. Gary thankfully flashed Ash an appreciatively sheepish grin as he seated himself, politely adjusting the tablecloth where he had wrinkled it.

"I've missed seeing you guys, Ashy-boy," he said solemnly. "Not much has changed about you two since last time I saw you––you both look the same as you did, act the same, and still have the same Pokémon, probably on the same level, too. I didn't know that such a big difference had come over Brock, though," he rushed on, as offended glints spread through both Ash's and Misty's eyes.

"Brock?" Ash repeated. Wrenching around his chair to scan the crowd for the Breeder, he at last glimpsed him. Brock was doing nothing out of the ordinary––at the moment, he was only sharing a dumpling with his date. He clipped his chopsticks over the fat dumpling and bit into its edge. His date licked her pink lips eagerly, leaning forward to close her mouth around the remainder of the dumpling. She seemed to giggle as she chewed, tracing her thumb over her lips to remove the residue of chicken broth.

"What big difference?" Ash reiterated, not afraid to say he didn't know. "Look at them. I bet if we weren't in this crowd he would've kissed her right then."

"Brock is too the same," Misty said, defending Brock. "He still gardens, cleans, makes tea and Pokémon food, and flirts with the girls nonstop."

Gary dumbly gawked at their apparent naivete. "But he isn't _with _a girl right now," he pointed out.

Misty shot Gary a miffed glance that plainly asked, "What?" She vocalized her confusion, and Gary shook his head at their lack of staying tuned with their friend.

"That guy. I saw him come in with you and Brock. The little fellow with the big green eyes and the ugly miniskirt."

Misty sighed, blowing stray strands of orange hair from her forehead. _All boys are the same_, she griped. _Completely stupid._

"You dimwit," she said. "That wasn't a _man_. That was Ms. Jane. And Jane is a 'her'. It's mean to make fun of people, anyway. Just 'cause Ms. Jane isn't curvy as a supermodel doesn't mean you can insult her."

Gary clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, genuine pity washing through his hazel irises. "You guys," he quipped, "it's too easy to see. I _know _girls. I've seen plenty of them, so I know what one looks like. And trust me, Ashy-boy, Brock's date is _not _a girl."

"What do you know about girls?" Ash asked, wiggling his finger in front of Gary's nose. "Brock has _sensors_, Gary––he can _smell_ a lady from miles away! What makes you think that he'd go on a date with a boy?"

"You haven't really looked at him, have you?" Gary inquired. "Turn around. Just watch that guy. If you're still not convinced, I'll tell you exactly why he's not a woman."

Both Ash and Misty obeyed, too stunned by the proclamation to refuse. Both the brown and blue eyes darted, praying to find fault with Gary's reasoning. But it seemed that the more closely they observed Brock's "girlfriend", the more evidence they found against that very term.

Wordlessly, they turned back to Gary, disheartened by the foreign information. Neither spoke, granting Gary the permission to flaunt his correct conclusion.

"Don't you get it, now?" he asked. "The way he sits; no woman will sit with her legs spread like that. Means he's used to wearing slacks, and that he forgets to keep his legs together 'cause he's wearing a skirt."

Ash had noticed.

"And the way he eats. Not in little bites. Doesn't cut the rice balls up all pretty in tiny pieces before he eats them, either. He stuffs his face, like you, Ashy-boy."

Ash sulked. He had noticed that, as well.

"And," Gary went on, "look at how he's staring at Brock. It's more like respect in his eyes, instead of stars. You don't see any regular girl looking like that at someone."

Waveringly, Misty peered across the table at Ash. They were only ten years old––the entire conception of two males doing anything intimate or romantic was a new one. They didn't quite grasp the graveness of the matter; rather, they viewed it as Brock having been tricked.

More likely, tricking _them_.

"I get it, now," Ash piped confidently. "Brock _did _fib when he told me about his date. I'll bet that he couldn't find anyone who wanted to come with him––he didn't want to look like a loser, so he found some guy to dress like a girl so everyone would think he had a girlfriend!" He chortled merrily with newly found knowledge.

"Exactly, Ashy-boy," Gary said. "And that's why he isn't going nuts over the guy. Keep watching them, though. You'll be able to tell a big difference––Brock isn't going to lay a finger on him. With a girl, he'd be hanging over her, but since he's with a boy..."

* * *

><p>Brock's gut was tight, feeling as if it was creeping up his throat and gradually suffocating him. He knew precisely the cause of his discomfort, as well. It wasn't because he had packed his interiors with as much sushi as possible, but because of the actions taking place hidden beneath the table.<p>

Perhaps James didn't know what he was doing. Maybe he was only venting his jittery energy by kicking the round toes of his loafers against something. But he was rubbing the side of his shoe against Brock's leg––several times, he managed to jiggle his heel against Brock's ankle. It tickled––the way James would gently brush against him, lightly nudging.

And, although most areas of Brock's body had been calloused to gentle contact, that didn't deem him not ticklish. Sensitive, even––especially his feet. Ash had found that out before, and had spent long minutes tackling Brock just to tickle him. He wouldn't deny that it felt good; it made sweet-feeling flutters jump in his nerves.

As he continued to pick idly at the bits of tofu that floated on the surface of the now-cold chicken soup, the waves of pleasure became more intense and arousing. Like warm sweet bean syrup drizzling through his veins instead of blood. Uncomfortably, he shifted in his seat, and when he did, James looked up.

"Brock?" he whispered, squinting at the taller boy's grimacing features. "Are you getting sick?"

Brock gave no reply, kneading the skin of his forehead between his thumb and forefinger as if drowning in thought.

"I guess eating so much made me feel nauseated." He humorlessly laughed. "I might have to go outside for a bit. Wouldn't really want to throw up on this pretty carpet."

Appearing mildly disgusted, James crinkled the bridge of his nose at the idea of Brock expelling the contents of his stomach into the unblemished floor.

"I'll come, too. In case I have to call the ambulance."

Brock didn't know if that was meant to be funny or not, but it was, in no way, a reassuring promise. He desperately wished to stay in his chair, as he wasn't keen on having James trail him out the door. It was more for his own benefit rather than James's––with the way fire was swirling through his midsection, burning away the tissue of his innards, he didn't really want to be alone with the scantily clad boy.

"Ah... um, let's go, then," he said, clearing his throat with a tactful cough. Stiffly, he stood to his feet, almost halting in his movements when the swishing sensation of fluffy softness became more difficult to sidestep.

"Okay." James pushed his chair away, standing politely as he waited for Brock to lead him from the hall. Brock wasted no time in doing so, feeling a dull fog scuttle over his mind as he hastily departed. When his shoulder would crash into the elbow of an unknown patron, he couldn't rouse up the concentration to apologize for his clumsiness––he continued on his way, closing his palm tightly around James's gloved fingers.

* * *

><p><em>Oh, please<em>, Meowth silently chanted, his paws seeming to be planted in the carpet. He wanted so terribly to move, to pursue James and Brock. They were leaving the room––without the other two twerps to follow them. They were going outside _together, _alone.

_Please, don't let anythin' happen. I couldn't be able to stand it if James was hurt. It's all that idiot Brock's fault. Roping James into all of this––what if he bewitches 'im so bad that he ain't never gonna come back to me and Jessie?_

Without thinking about what could be the result of his thoughtless chase, Meowth bounded from his hiding place, the curtains billowing as he leaped into the open area. His legs were mere smudges of white and brown as he scrabbled on all fours toward the doorway, weaving through the maze of people––his long tail curled against his back, his snout taut with hatred.

The shrill, indignant cries of, "What fool let their Meowth loose?" were lost beneath the sound of his labored breath, but it wasn't as if anyone was going to put actual effort into capturing him. The citizens scrambled from his path, noting how the brass coin on his wide forehead glinted determinedly––no Meowth that appeared so intensely confident should be tampered with.

_I don't care if you want to spend time with someone different or not, James. _He clenched his teeth against a growling hiss. _But if it goes to your big head so stinkin' much that you won't listen to anyone, then it's time for me to intervene._

* * *

><p>It was bitterly chilly outdoors. Even the untamed Pokémon, the abode of which was in the expanse of natural habitation, were silent. The trembling stars dominated the heavens, seemingly tiny pieces of glitter caught in the naked branches of the birch trees.<p>

James let his breath crawl through the air as a condensed cloud of moisture, the iciness beginning to seep through his sweater to run over his skin. Childishly, he hugged himself, bouncing lightly on tiptoe in a vain attempt to warm himself.

_Come on, Brock_, he thought. _Why don't you throw up, already? It feels weird, out here, being in the dark alone._

Sniffling, feeling the cold gnaw wolfishly at his legs, he slowly ran his rose petal tongue over his lips, watching as Brock stamped toward the orchard to rest against a birch. If he cared that miniscule flakes of parchment-like white bark were peeling from the tree trunk to stick in the fibers of his immaculate jacket, he didn't show it.

"B––Brock?" he murmured tentatively, shuddering. "Can I go back inside, now? It's too cold."

His teeth clicked together as he quivered, small dots of snow drifting from the dark clouds to fasten themselves to his windblown hair.

"_No_."

The way Brock said it was simple. No elaboration or unnecessary language. But James curiously regarded how tight and angry Brock's voice sounded. The noise of his voice echoed hollowly through the estate, and for the shortest fraction of a moment, James was afraid. Meowth's foreboding prediction was ricocheting through his head. Nervously swallowing back the irrational fear, he tightened his kerchief with a quick jerk and squared himself.

"Why not?" he challenged. "I don't like standing here. I'll catch sick if I do."

He knew he was selfishly whining, but did it matter? Panic detonated in his chest as he stumbled backwards, Brock's heated slit gaze scorching his own green eyes as he competitively glared at him.

"Come here," Brock commanded. "Get right in front of me."

Almost daringly, James trekked across the muddied ground, situating himself pertinently before Brock. He knew that he probably should not have heeded the request, but it didn't seem to offer him any choice. There was a portentous attitude about Brock, almost as if he was about to claim that all purity was about to be smudged by the greasy hand-prints of greed.

"You... you've wrecked my evening," Brock muttered thickly, a bite of steel in his tone. "You've been tearing apart my mind all day. I haven't gotten any rest from thinking about you, James––so tell me, what are you going to do about it? How are you going to make it better? How will you fix everything so I'll just _forget _about you?"

James became petrified. Those were the things he never wanted to hear. Brock wished to forget him, to erase the memory of the night completely. He desired to have the feeling of James snuggling against his side wiped away. Brock didn't want to remember him, or to think about him before he slept at night.

Brock wanted the image of his genuine smile to vanish––and that had to be the worst of all.

James didn't bother to sink his teeth into his lip to slow the onset of the liquid that festered in the corners of his eyes. He didn't _want_ to be forgotten. Wasn't that why he had constructed a time-consuming bond with Jessie and Meowth? It was so he would be remembered, even if it was only by an adamant woman and a loquacious Pokémon.

"Well?" Brock urged, smacking his palms against James's soft cheeks and tilting his chin upwards. "You got me into this mess by actually listening to me. If you're so much better than any of us, then get me out of trouble. Make me bury any remembrance of you."

"I... I don't k––know how," James breathlessly whispered, the core of his throat constricting painfully. Brock's thumb pressed against his jaw, his fingers hidden beneath James's rumpled cerulean locks––the fire was eating him whole. It kicked against his ribs, threatening to shatter them, until Brock thought he should groan in tortured agony.

In one fluid, planned motion, he bent closer to James's nose, and, craning his neck, melded his mouth against the other's. James's lips were cold and supple as they moved with his own, tasting not unlike the sugared syrup that had been drizzled over the majority of their meal.

Had his mouth not been sealed, James would have coughed out a horrified gasp at Brock's impudent action. He felt the stabbing sensation of numbness trail up his legs, unsure if it was because of Brock, or if it was from the snowfall.

But Brock was _kissing _him. Kissing _him_. Brock was warm––waves of heat generated from his body, bouncing against James's bare skin. But if that warmth was delicious, then what Brock managed to do with his lips was sickeningly wonderful.

Brock let his mouth slide over James's, cautiously catching his glossy lip between his teeth. James immediately went rigid, his hands flying up to snatch a fistful of Brock's shirt, wrinkling the material in his strong grip. His eyes screwed shut, brows lowering as his nose scrunched in a mask of determination to keep his tears from leaking past his closed eyelids.

James had never let anyone touch his face. Of course, Jessie made contact with him on several occasions––but it was always a slamming blow with her powerful knuckles, never a caress. He vaguely remembered how his mother's hands felt, and decided that this was almost like the way she would stroke his hair from his forehead. Gently, but with disguised passion.

Neither spoke of their thoughts––when James tensed, Brock sluggishly separated from him. In the dim light, it was difficult to see, but a smudge of pink dusted his tawny complexion, the result of his ignited state. His hands were still pressed to James's cheeks, and he noticed how the smaller man had paled. Miniscule beads of perspiration glistened on his soft flesh, and, in his foolishly exalted being, Brock was smitten by the desire to kiss away the moisture.

Closing his fingers into the back of James's head, tightly grabbing the coarse tendrils of blue hair, he tugged him down until they were both crouching, knees flush against the frosted ground. James landed in an undignified manner, his hands splayed between his parted thighs. Rather than leave him be, Brock fumbled to draw his trembling body into his arms.

James complied, as lifeless as a plush figure. Brock pulled him forward, his face pressing uncomfortably against Brock's stomach and his chest rising and falling steadily against the front of Brock's slacks. He could feel the high temperature radiating from that single area, and it was enough to cause a flush of shame to color his expression.

"Sit up," Brock muttered, pushing his hands beneath James to coax him into a kneeling position. Level with each other, Brock awkwardly groped to cup the pads of his palms against the taut roundness of James's hindquarters, propping him in a posture that allowed simple access to all planes of his figure.

The instant that Brock's bold hands slipped beneath his miniskirt, James lost all ability to reason.

"Fwah-_ah_!" He buried his face in Brock's shoulder as daredevil fingers coasted recklessly between his legs, poking at his backside impishly as if to rile him. James sat up, weakly attempting to rid himself of the prodding touches. Immediately, Brock lowered his chin to rest on the crown of James's head, pressing his rear down against his hands.

"D––don't do that!" James whined, his words muffled against Brock's neck––as the tanned fingers stroked the hem of his undershorts, he grit out a gravelly wail, clamping his shins around the Breeder's waist.

"Get your twerpy hands out of my skirt!" he pleaded, wriggling in Brock's embrace. He regretted his sharp words, but Brock seemed to be much too enthralled in mapping out all aspects of James's body to give any portion of his attention to be offended.

"Stop talking like that," Brock said, huffing, massaging the heels of his palms into James's round hips. "Don't talk like yourself... talk... like 'Jane'," he demanded, swallowing as much air as was manageable. Interaction such as this robbed him of thought or sense, leaving him wanting nothing but that horrendous _fire _in his gut to be quenched.

James couldn't help it. With difficulty, he tried to escalate his tone into the rolling purr of a female, but the consequence was an unearthly combination of a scraping English accent and an adolescent whose voice had not yet developed. Wincing at the sound he himself had emitted, he acknowledged the tempest burning in his eyes.

"B-Brock," he said, his head falling backwards to lean against Brock's arm. "It pinches..."

Exhaling shakily, he let the boy continue to wander his focus around his backside, not realizing exactly what the squeezing, hurting feeling was. Everything was happening simultaneously. His backside was being fondled, he was being jostled ever-so-discreetly against the crotch of Brock's trousers, and there was an unidentifiable pain burning his throat.

And he didn't know if he wanted it to be done more vigorously, or if he wanted all actions to cease.

"Brock," he repeated, his voice void of calmness or nonchalance. "That's starting to––"

Before he was given the chance to complain, Brock mashed his mouth against James's, harshly closing his teeth over the Rocket's moist tongue. That one movement brought all to a brutal conclusion.

James yelped in shocked surprised, tugging back to be free from the tormenting feeling of having his tongue forced into a pointed vise. Brock's teeth dug into the sensitive tissue, and, rather than allowing James to lean the opposite way, he pulled his tongue forward, biting into it more roughly as if to scold the boy for all his obliviousness to his discomfort.

Wetness clouded James's vision as the metallic taste of copper flooded the interior of his mouth. He briefly considered pounding his fist into Brock's chest, just to break the unpleasant grip, but his lack of courage became more evident when Brock wrapped his arms tightly about his middle. James, in turn, strengthened the clenching of his legs around Brock's torso, for little other purpose other than distracting his mind from how his tongue throbbed.

"What are you trying to do to me, you idiot?" The instant he managed to jerk away, James succumbed to his wish, forcefully striking Brock's ear. Grinding his teeth against a snarling hiss of indignant fury, he glared maliciously into Brock's dark eyes.

"I don't know _what_ you think I am," he growled, "but putting your nasty, grubby little kid hands all over me is just... just..."

James's voice flattened into nothingness as Brock dug his elbow into his abdomen, haphazardly rolling onto the wet ground. James held in a shuddering whimper as Brock pinned him down, the stiff carpet of grass and crinkled leaves painfully hard beneath his back. Clay soil smeared over his gloves, and he could feel the gritty, ice-cold substance being painted on his bare legs and neck, as well.

But all those thoughts evaporated as Brock unleashed the final barrage of satisfying ministrations. James was beginning to suffer from the effects of the sudden accumulation of stress: something pounded behind his forehead, and he was sure that it would implode at any given moment. He didn't know if the fluid seeping from the corners of his lips was saliva, or sticky strands of blood from his tongue being bitten, but either option wasn't pleasing to think of. He was sure that he appeared most undesirable as he lay helplessly beneath the mass of Brock's heavy body, his eyes teary, his hair plastered to his brow, and his expression tight with the fear of what was to take place next.

_Finally_, Brock thought, lowering himself to rest on James's stomach. The mere contact of his groin against a solid object made him want to sob in blatant, blindingly hot euphoria. It tingled, sending miniscule shock waves through his spine.

_It's so easy... with him, it's so easy to do what I've wanted to do with girls for so long. _Brock slipped his hand behind James's neck, lifting his head up high enough for him to close his lips over the crying boy's mouth in a begrudgingly soothing gesture.

_He doesn't really like this, _Brock noticed. _It's making him upset––upset enough to hit me. But he's not completely trying to get away. He still couldn't run, even if he did his best._

_Tonight will benefit both of us. I'll get what I wanted from him, and we'll forget about each other._

* * *

><p>"James!" Meowth hoarsely called, all sensation having been taken from his paws. The chill had gnawed away his ability to feel. With every step he took, pink smears tainted the powder-white earth. The shards of ice poked at his feet, and snow layered his fur, not melting away. In any other situation, he would have fled into the comfort of a building, but this wasn't any matter to be flippantly brushed away.<p>

"James?" The cat stopped, lifting his nose curiously at the sudden burst of scent that the wind offered to him. It was an odd odor, like mint-clove cologne and sweat. His whiskers stiffened at the smell, his black ears swiveling to cup any hint of noise.

Perseveringly pressing his muzzle to the frosted grass, he snuffled deeply, inhaling the distinctive aroma of soaked dirt and masculine perfume. He began to scuttle about, not looking around, but instead relying on scent to guide him.

"Nnf!" He grunted, cringing as sharp tangles of vegetation wrapped around his head. Vigorously shaking himself, the small brown ivy leaves scattering, he slowly realized that he had walked directly into the depths of a bush.

Raucously, a high-pitched shrieking began to split the air, startling Meowth. The hair on his back rose instinctively as he rashly smacked his paw against the foliage.

"What's in there? Get on out, if you know what's good for you. I ain't afraid to cut loose!"

Heeding the warning, the Pokémon that burrowed in the thick, leaf-covered twigs shyly made itself known. Two long, fluff-tipped golden ears emerged, followed by a round, childlike rodent face.

"Pika-chu?" The Pikachu gingerly observed Meowth's angered shivering, its black-button eyes large with wonder. Its jagged tail flicked, wagging peacefully as Meowth scowled.

"Yeah, yeah," Meowth muttered disinterestedly. "I didn't mean to wake you up. But I was kinda lookin' for someone."

The Pikachu nodded sagely, listening with fascination. Eager to assist in any way, it bounced lightly into the air, its bristles twitching nervously.

"Pi-ka. Ka-chu?" Its clawed toes curled as Meowth bit out a snapping reply.

"_No_. I don't belong to anyone. I ain't never had a Trainer and never will. I was tryin' to find my friend. Have you seen anyone come outta that there dinin' hall?"

The Pikachu frowned contemplatively, one ear lowering as it pondered. Then, the dust fading from its ebony eyes, it shifted, turning toward the birch orchard.

"Ka-chu, pi-kapi," it yipped excitedly. Tiny blue static discharges crackled in its blonde fur, the result of its sudden enthusiasm.

Meowth glanced toward the shadow-cloaked line of bare trees, a shudder nestling into the base of his neck at the haunting sight.

"Well, I guess you're right," he amended. "If it was two guys smellin' like laundry soap and mints, then that's probably who I'm lookin' for. Thanks, Pikachu," he added, almost as an afterthought.

The Pikachu leisurely returned to its slumber, feeling that its duty had been successfully carried out.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Pikachu are cute, but annoying. And blonde, apparently, if you've seen Sir Ketchum's Pikachu. Now Victreebel and Chimecho are my kind of Pocket Monster. I love Chimecho. And Koffing! And Carnivine. I named my Carnivine "Carnibble." And I love it.


	5. Rocket's Emptiness

**NOBODY'S SOMEONE**

**CHAPTER FIVE: **Rocket's Emptiness

**Author's Note: **As I write, I watch the episode _Flower Power._ James has pretty legs when they're topped with a frilly tutu. I mean... _yes._

* * *

><p>"James!"<p>

Meowth violently scrambled through the hedge that surrounded the orchard, thrashing through the dense plant growth. Too distracted by the scene before him, he paid no attention to the way vines looped around his leg, sinking into his skin.

Desperately, Meowth bounded toward James––the boy crouched near the base of a birch tree, hugging his thin legs to his chest. Even from a distance, Meowth could see how his gloves were caked with red mud, and the way his skirt was creased and rumpled. His petticoat hung crookedly from the hem of the garment, and his hair appeared wet, the limp strands hiding his closed eyes from view.

"James..."

Meowth didn't want to think. Because if he did, the worst of images would flash into his mind. He wasn't particularly experienced in how humans lavished their affections upon one another, but, judging solely by the scent, he could conjure up a fairly accurate idea. It smelled warm and bitter, moist and metallic, like the scent of sweat, blood, and spit.

He blanched, feeling his mouth go sour with bile. How disgusting. It couldn't have been true. It took grinding his teeth together and digging his toes into the dirt to keep from falling into a violent fit of nausea. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done––convincing himself that James had engaged in something so vile. How could he have? It was just one of those things that Meowth would have never been able to visualize him doing. The image of James twisting his body into another man's stomach just couldn't be compared to the one of him contentedly rocking back and forth on his heels while watching Meowth pursue a knot of yellow yarn.

The Scratch Cat swallowed back the bulge that was forming in the core of his neck. Meekly, he crept toward James, crawling miserably on all fours to press his nose tentatively against James's ankle. The brass coin on Meowth's forehead began to glitter as he nuzzled against James's foot, fiercely claiming that James was _his_ companion. His friend––and all he wanted was for the tears in James's shamrock-green eyes to disappear. Because he could see his reflection in the glossy orbs of emerald, and he didn't like to be shown how his own yellow eyes glinted with rage.

James barely acknowledged Meowth's presence at first, but momentarily, he let himself gaze down into the Pokémon's wistful, sympathetic face. And the instant that he allowed himself to see how pitiful Meowth appeared, his fragile composure began to shatter.

"Me––Meowth," he gasped, his red cheeks flushing deeply as he sobbed out a butchered version of the cat's name. "He––whe––why are you h-here?"

Meowth gently leaned against James's side, closing his eyes to keep his vision from blurring with moisture. With every hiccup that bounced from James's lips, a new scar tore into his chest–– how any person with an honest iota of compassion could listen to him cry, Meowth didn't know.

But he had vowed. Sworn to himself that, if Brock touched James in the wrong way, he would claw him into sopping ribbons of flesh. Meowth had never felt such powerful explosions of hatred, and he most certainly was not taking pride in himself at the moment. He had heard the fables of how hatred ate people alive––it scared him to realize that he was experiencing those same feelings. If his own fury contained any righteousness, he wasn't sure, but whatever it was, he was fearful of its very existence.

"Where'd he go?" Meowth muttered, his words drowned by the leather of James's loafer. It went without saying that both the Pokémon and boy knew exactly who Meowth meant by "he."

"I don't know." James bitterly scrubbed his wrist over his nose, squinting through the foggy film of wetness that glazed his sight. "I... he l––left. I don't know why. B––but good riddance. If he... if he'd gone any f––further, I wouldn't have b––been able to keep from killing him."

Had it been anywhere else, Meowth would have scoffed. Though James was fairly capable of wreaking havoc on any set being, Meowth firmly believed that he would feel too much regret to actually carry out an act of malice against another. In the slight chance that James would ever be provoked enough to truly 'throttle' Brock as he had claimed, he would immediately beg and plead to be pardoned from his deed, committing all sorts of penance just to make up for what he had done.

Meowth curled his sleek tail in defensive wrath, patting his paw comfortingly against James's smooth hand. He had to leave the place, immediately, before he was tempted to seek a gross act of revenge against Brock. He slightly calmed himself by chanting that Brock had not really done enough to eternally hurt James, but the boy had earned himself a place of loathing in two separate souls, and where Meowth was concerned, that was not nearly enough punishment.

"Come on," Meowth purred in a low tone, a fatherly sort of rumble entering his voice. "We need to go back home before anythin' _else _decides to muss us up."

Unwillingly, James accepted the cue to stand, albeit shakily. His knees bent, his legs nearly folding back into a crouching position. Awkwardly, he considered staying where he was. He hadn't bade Ash and Misty a farewell––though one glance at Meowth dissolved that intention.

Silently, he followed Meowth from the shrubbery, ignoring the way his clothing would catch on the greedy limbs. His feet sank into the snow, the powder having frozen into a white layer of grainy ice. It crunched loudly beneath the soles of his loafers, while Meowth managed to pick his way without sound through the massive lawn without having his paws being swallowed into the ice.

"Don't say anythin' to Jessie when we get back. It'd scare her real bad," Meowth solemnly said. Quietness enveloped them, the lack of conversation disconcerting.

Startled by this request, James stiffened, Meowth's words igniting the memory of having Jessie being honestly furious with him. They constantly squabbled among themselves; it was nearly all in jest, though. When Jessie was truly afraid or angry, she let it be fully known to her teammates.

Finally, James released the breath he hadn't realized that he was holding, and once again scraped his knuckles over his eyes. Looking up at him, Meowth could still discern the glowing trails where the fiery hot tears had crept down his face.

"I wasn't going to say anything at all to her. It'd be embarrassing," he said, his voice wobbling and his accent growing heavier and more pronounced.

"What would?" Meowth questioned intently––despite knowing, he just wanted to listen to James talk.

"T––telling her that I was too much of a pansy to keep from getting messed with by somebody," James mumbled self-consciously. "If _she _had been the one to go on a date, she could have stopped him before anything happened. In fact... if she had been me, nothing would have happened in the first place. But because it was me, i––it had to go wrong."

The sudden urge to touch James struck Meowth. He knew that there was little he could do to comfort him, but he needed something to soothe himself.

His self-control crumbling into useless fragments, Meowth leaned closer, quietly rubbing his soft cheek against James's shin. His stiff whiskers poked into James's bare skin, but if it stung, James gave no outward signs of being pained. James stared ahead, letting the grains of snow drift down to stick in his hair.

_I wish I knew what you was thinkin', _Meowth mused. _And I wish that I could make all o' this mess disappear, too. But now... we have a real reason to call those kids 'useless excuses for twerps._

* * *

><p>"Brock!" Misty exclaimed, sending Brock a heated glare as he trudged toward their table. Her brows lowered to shade her squinted cerulean eyes when she scowled, staring with unhidden disgust at the red-orange soil that layered the knees of Brock's black slacks.<p>

"What happened?" she asked, somewhat smugly. "Why, I didn't know you still liked to play outside in the dirt."

Brock pushed no effort into attempting to keep his annoyance in check. "I wasn't playing. I went outside for a minute, and I tripped over my shoelace. Anyway, it's time for us to leave. Tell Gary goodbye. Don't forget your purse, Misty."

Startled, Ash paused, his oversized spoonful of coffee gelatin suspended mere inches from his opened mouth. He had never heard Brock blatantly _order _them to gather their things to leave an event. Brock vastly enjoyed any sort of social gathering, from festivals to marriages––it was always Ash and Misty who were forced to haul Brock away from the crowds and lights.

"B––but Gary and I were just starting to talk about Professor Oak's new Poké Ball theory!" Ash protested. When Brock's figurative vibrations of suppressed irritation fully rippled against his conscience, he shoved the small hill of flavored gelatin into his mouth, just to gain an excuse for not immediately obeying Brock's command.

"You can call Gary later and finish your conversation," Brock offhandedly replied, miffed that he was being defied. "Just let's go. Come on," he urged, smacking his fingernail against the glass face of his wristwatch.

"Aw'right, aw'_right_," Ash snapped, dropping his spoon with a heavy clink and jerking up from his chair. Blowing air into his cheeks, forming a peevish pout, he snatched his knapsack and slung it over his round shoulder. Hastening to follow, Misty stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from her short cotton skirt and tucking her handbag into the crook of her arm.

"B––bye, Gary," Ash called wistfully, lifting one hand to give a dejected little wave of farewell. "Um... I might call you later. Tomorrow, maybe."

"Yeah." Misty frowned, warily observing Brock's fidgety motions. Her gaze flickered back to rest on Gary's disappointed, slouching figure, and she offered him a small rueful smile of sympathy. "We'll see you."

Remorsefully, Gary let his lips bend in a wobbly smile. "That's okay. I'm sorry. I'll talk to you guys later, okay?"

He didn't receive an answer, as Brock was already pulling the children along behind him as he shot toward the double doors that were his exit.

* * *

><p>Jessie didn't hear the first knock. Groggily muttering some incoherent insult, she slowly rolled over, the folds of the insulated sleeping bag tangling around her legs.<p>

"_Jessie! It's us! Let us in, already, before I start tearin' the door down! It's freezin' out here._"

"Hmph?" Blearily, the girl opened one blue eye a slit, peering through her fringes of lashes. She was facing the wall; gray shadows swayed over the peeling wallpaper in a mesmerizing sort of dance. She beheld the entrancing sight for a moment, before noticing with a sharp intake of breath the two shaded figures that were silhouetted in the window.

"What the... _hey!_" Raking her wrist over her closed eyes to clear the film of hazy drowsiness, she looked again at the dark shadows before realization clicked in her sleep-fogged mind.

"Hold on, Meowth," she sighed, kicking the quilt away. A chill seized her body suddenly, and she succumbed to the need to shudder. Ignoring the iciness that reigned in the small room, she quietly slid through the thick blue darkness to fumble with the lock on the brass doorknob.

When she tugged the door open, its bottom scraping against the scuffed linoleum, a whipping gust of frozen wind tore into the cabin. Meowth stumbled inside, his forepaw cupping James' fingers as he yanked him over the threshold.

"Turn on the light, Jess," Meowth asked, his large eyes subtly shining a bright yellow. "It's cold in here, too. Is the heater runnin' still?"

Surprised by Meowth's imperatively casual behavior, Jessie picked her way to the entrance of the short hallway and flipped the light switch. As the fluorescent bulb, hung from the ceiling crossbeams by multicolored wires, came to life, the stupidly cheerful brightness began to shoo away the dull blackness.

"I'm shocked that you fellows actually came back before morning," Jessie said sleepily, not bothering to smother a hearty yawn. Her scarlet lipstick was smudged, and her mascara had clumped into small bits around her eyelids.

"Sorry, Jess," Meowth answered simply. "We couldn't stay long. It was a big party and all, but them twerps made it known that they didn't really want us there with 'em. Ain't that the truth, Jimmy."

At the flat coaxing to emphasize the dishonesty of their earlier predicament, James chose to nod vehemently instead of speaking.

Not thoroughly convinced, Jessie folded her arms across her bulging chest. "If you being there bothered the twerps, why didn't you stay to annoy them as long as you could? If I knew that _I _could get on their nerves, I'd follow them all the stinking way home!"

Crunching her fingers in a fist of triumph, she directed her next barrage of speech toward James:

"And you––you were supposed to bring home something good from the food bar. Do you have any sushi rolls?" she asked eagerly. "Maybe some soup or sticky rice? I'll even accept scallion noodles or hamburgers."

James tentatively affirmed in the negative. "I didn't mean to, but I forgot about bringing something back. Sorry."

Jessie paused. There was a dry note in James's voice––the scratching sound was even more hoarse than usual. She visually swept over him from the top of his ruffled blue hair to the muddied toes of his penny loafers, and belatedly noticed how unkempt he was.

"Did you get into a scuffle?" she asked in disbelief, pressing her palm to her forehead. "You're a mess. And you smell like dirt."

Defensively, James curled his arms around himself, refusing to acknowledge her scrutiny. "And you can't keep anything to yourself. I'm tired, alright? I don't want to hear you whine all night."

Dumbfounded at his uncharacteristic snapping, Jessie recoiled, a breeze of hurt wafting through her widened eyes. She felt a familiar pang of regret for having prodded at James until he couldn't bear another word– nervously, she turned to Meowth, who stood carelessly examining his frostbitten paw pad.

"What happened while you two were gone?" she whispered when James had stomped away. "James looks terrible. And you're acting odd, too. What's been going on that I don't know about?"

Meowth extended his claws, observing the hooked appendages contemplatively. "I dunno anythin' about anythin'. I guess James had his poor heart set on finally bein' welcomed by somebody, and when those kids got bored with 'im and started tellin' him to leave, it messed him up real bad. I'd leave 'im alone so's he can sulk for a while, if I was in your shoes."

Heeding the Pokémon's advice, Jessie straightened her posture, staring blankly at the wall border where the dust had settled in small hills of purple lint. After a second of thought, she exhaled with pity.

"I didn't want him to go. But I do feel bad about being hateful to him," she said. Meowth was silent, as if he had become completely lost in his own musings. There was a hard look about the way Meowth wrinkled his snout in a scowl, his large ears pinned to his skull.

_There's no sense in trying to get a decent story out of either of them, _Jessie reasoned to herself._ It's probably over something I don't want to know about, anyway._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Jessie is the best female character ever. Normally I hate adding girls to a fanfiction, but I like her. She's got a personality to mess around with.


	6. Fear

**NOBODY'S SOMEONE**

**CHAPTER SIX: **Fear

**Author's Note: **James is just too fun to write. I wish the Rockets were in all the games, instead of just Yellow Version. Pft. These game-creators don't know what they're missing. Maybe they could do some whacked-out scene like with N, Black, and the Ferris wheel, only with James and the main character. On second thought, gross.

* * *

><p>Ash was afraid.<p>

It wasn't the kind of heart-squeezing fear that made one's pupils dilate and his pulse quicken with terror––this was a constant fear. A sort of anxiety that steadily, day by day, peeled away his calm exterior to set about nibbling away at his sanity.

Team Rocket had vanished.

He hadn't been given the slightest glimpse of them over the span of five weeks––he hadn't so much as caught sight of their enormous basket sky blimp since the evening of the Johto League reunion banquet.

Though Ash Ketchum was, by no means, the most intelligent of beings that inhabited the earth, he could guess that Brock had something to do with Team Rocket's absence.

Despite the changes in his entire personality being slight, Brock's nature had morphed since that night, over a lunar month ago. It seemed that he had discovered a strange kind of quiet, brooding maturity. There was an ever-present wrinkle on the bridge of his nose, as if he had frowned for too long to get rid of it.

He had resumed his task of being the caretaker of Ash and Misty, although his lightheartedness had abandoned him, being choked out by his guilt. When he sat by the makeshift fire pit, dutifully poking a bent stick into the winking orange cinders as he watched the rice boil loudly in the heavy pot, he would ponder.

It didn't make him feel better that James was gone. The first day that the trio of supposed "thieves" had failed to arrive, he had been nearly exuberant. If James was no longer in the region, then Brock wouldn't be forced to stare into those wet emerald eyes. He wouldn't have to be constantly reminded of how he had made James cry by inflicting pain upon him. The well-known phrase, "out of sight; out of mind," had rooted itself into his memory.

But as time crawled past him, the sun and moon slowly trading places with one another, Brock realized that he wasn't happy. If the lack of Team Rocket did anything for him, it served only to add another puncture wound to his conscience. He _missed _them. And he wanted to apologize.

He didn't want to make James cry anymore. He vaguely remembered how James had spilled out his fears of desiring to never be forgotten. And Brock winced at knowing that he had shoved that nervousness down James's throat without stopping to think over his actions. He had blatantly told James that he was _going _to forget him, if it took every ounce of his will.

And he regretted it. He wondered if it had hurt James enough to change him, the way that their intimacy had changed himself. He had never really been familiar with utter _foolishness _before, but now, he knew her better than he knew his own siblings. He was stupid for having traded his contentment for the few brief minutes his affair with James had lasted.

His moodiness affected everyone. Ash was much quieter and even thoughtful, a great deviation from his self of five weeks ago. Misty seemed torn between wanting to cheer her companions, or wishing to join them in their melancholy. Instead of doing either, she often stood awkwardly beside Ash, seldom speaking.

Brock gave a gentle, breathy sigh as he jabbed the ladle into the cast-iron canister of spinach broth. Droplets of the golden soup bounced free to burrow into the canvas of his worn apron or to be lost in the tufts of grass that sprouted from the gravelly ground.

_It won't do me any good at all to keep thinking about it, _he thought, absentmindedly pinching a few grains of cinnamon between his fingertips to sprinkle into the spinach broth––the sweet scent clung to his hands as he roamed back to the pine tree. The prongs of the lowest branches supported him as he gingerly seated himself in the crook of the intersecting twigs.

The hum of winter-adapted insects was dense in the cold air. Appreciatively, Brock turned his head to let the wisp of wind caress his cheek––he loved cold weather. Though warm seasons signified female figures encased in scanty swimwear, winter meant something much more beautiful. It was as though the world had grown burdened with itself, and torn its coat to start over again in hopes that the next turn would end up being better.

He smiled ruefully. _How corny to think like that_, he thought. But a philosophical view on the average, mediocre things helped to comfort him. Because he was shown, again and again, that everything was hurt––everything spilled blood and shed tears. But they healed and eventually forgot about their agony. And that meant that James would heal, too. As he aged, he would no longer remember how it felt to be tangled with Brock in the midst of a birch orchard at midnight.

Brock often wondered if the incident had been purely his fault. He doubted it––he would rather blame his carelessness on the fact that James had resembled so closely a woman that night. If James had not shown himself so prettily, in such a girlish manner of behavior and dress, then Brock would not have committed any uncouth acts against him.

That was what he told himself, and the more he relished the explanation for his actions, the more convinced he became that everything––his inner turmoil, the gloominess of his friends, his sudden unhappiness––everything was James's fault.

* * *

><p>James pressed his cheek into the flat pillow, staring blankly at the ancient yellowed poster that had been taped to the wall. He had memorized each last detail of the farmland scene, down to the number of tiny pink flowers that had been painted in the corner.<p>

Illness had relentlessly taxed his body over the last month. Through the first twinges of sickness, he had panicked––he had heard of how people could _die _because of disease acquired through premature deeds of intimacy. Even though Brock had only touched him and ventured to kissed him, he was still terrified by the idea of falling victim to death because of Brock.

But as his fever became more clear to Jessie and Meowth, Meowth had begun to flurry about in a worried frenzy. Jessie had finally caved in to their pleas to call the physician; upon the doctor's arrival, he had easily dismissed James's fears by announcing that he had been struck by a case of pneumonia. He softened their concerns by confiding that the condition was common in the solid winter weather.

James had spent much of his time wound in his heavy plaid quilt, burrowed in the limp mattress of his bed. It gave him ample periods of rest and thought, and when he wasn't sleeping or brooding, Jessie and Meowth would meander in to offer him oyster broth or to simply talk among themselves.

"Hey, James," Meowth greeted, ambling into the warm confines of the bedroom. "I haven't heard from you today. No coughin' yet, huh? Maybe that means you'll be doin' better from now on."

"I hope so," James murmured, taking into consideration Meowth's gentle, cautious tone. "Then we can finally get out of the house. I'm getting bored with staying in one place for so long."

Meowth leaped effortlessly to the rumpled cot, landing with a quiet thump. His tail curled against his back as he settled himself in a compact ball, buried against James's hip as he trustingly allowed his large eyes to close.

"Tomorrow, James," Meowth said drowsily, "would you like to go out and run after the twerps for a few hours? That exercise just might do you some good... or maybe––well, no, I guess not," he hastily finished. "Sorry. I forgot about that... you know. Didn't mean to remind you."

"S'okay." James shrugged nonchalantly. Even though James's voice was airy, Meowth saw a quick shadow pass over his face to embed itself into his conscience. The events of the Johto banquet were still firmly present in James' mind, drawn to the surface by even the slightest word or gesture.

For an extended minute, Meowth kept his silence, choosing to refrain from offending James any more than he just had. If the boy's well-being had not been such an enormous priority in his life, Meowth possibly could have advanced further in his talents and dreams.

After awhile, when Meowth had been quiet for so long that he had unknowingly been sucked into the sweetness of sleep, James tentatively piled the folds of the covers aside and padded to the opposite side of the small enclosed room.

Pushing aside the half-opened suitcases that cluttered the corner, he abruptly plopped to the floor and jerked his legs up to meet his chest. Resting his chin on his knees in his characteristic pose, he let himself become mingled with the foreboding sense of guilt that feathered in his stomach.

"I'm so sorry, God,"he whispered, screwing his eyes shut as his expression crumpled. "I shouldn't be like this... I'm sorry for being the one to get into a kind of trouble that should never happen to anyone so early. I shouldn't have done what I did with Brock, and it's killing me inside. I'm sorry for being sick, and I'm sorry for making Jessie and Meowth worry... and I'm sorry for letting all of this happen. I just don't want to see Brock again. Please, You can let anything else happen, God, but please, just don't let me see Brock tomorrow."

James lifted his head, his watery eyes fixated on the ceiling. And for the first time, he wondered if there really was anyone would listen to his plaintive cry.

* * *

><p>Ash lazily dipped his fingers into the small pool of congealed ketchup, lowering his hand beneath the picnic table to nudge his wrist against Pikachu's distended side. Pikachu curiously regarded the red substance that coated Ash's fingers. When the familiar scent registered in its mind, it gave an appreciative yap of glee and began to run its soft tongue over the sugary ketchup.<p>

"Thanks for buying some catsup for Pikachu," Ash absentmindedly murmured to Brock. Pikachu's tongue ravished the condiment as it squawked out an ecstatic purr, pressing its paws into Ash's palm to reach the last smudges of ketchup.

"It was alright," Brock said. "It was on sale for half off. And it was Pikachu's favorite brand, too."

Poking a spoonful of now-cold spinach broth into his mouth, he wiped his wrist across his lips and carefully analyzed Misty's reaction to the meal. The girl was gratefully devouring the soup, having grown utterly sick of the sandwiches they had always eaten when in a hurry to travel. It was enjoyable to have nothing to do except sit down and eat while enjoying the company of their Pokémon.

"How do you like the soup, Misty?" Brock asked, to make sure she was relishing the warm flavor of spinach leaves and cinnamon. Misty grinned, closing her eyes in the intensity of her contentment.

"It's really good, Brock," she gushed. Though in truth, she really didn't think highly of spinach or cinnamon, preferring colored fruits and poultry, she would do anything to heighten Brock's mood and make him smile at her. It felt wonderful to be speaking to one another without being wary of a snapping reply.

Before Brock could give a draining sigh, the entire area became cloaked in a sudden darkness. Following the disappearance of the sun's white rays, all three children began to glance about accusingly, thrown into a dull fright––a deep rumbling vibrated the air, seeming to rattle even the pebbles that littered the earth. Pikachu gave a high-pitched squeal of horror, scrambling from underneath the table to latch itself to Ash's shoulder.

"What did you _do_, Ash?" Misty shrieked, clenching her arms tightly around her Togepi. The creature had been nestled in her lap, but was jostled awake by the violent quaking of the ground. Now, it began to chirp with unease, burrowing deeper into Misty's protective embrace.

"What in the––I didn't do anything!" Ash protested, wildly scanning the landscape for the source of the tremors. Before he could squall out that he saw nothing varying from what was ordinary, he was deftly interrupted by two sickeningly well-known voices that echoed eerily from all directions.

"_Prepare for trouble!_"

"_And make it double!_"

Ash slumped with flattened excitement, almost choking on his own appreciative laughter. Misty followed his display of disgusted joy, giggling as she cradling the now-relaxed Togepi. Team Rocket had returned, in a showcase of minor destruction that even Ash found mildly impressive.

Squinting into the glare of the sun, Ash could discern the outline of their Meowth-shaped basket balloon from the thick smog of wispy clouds. He didn't bother to mask the smirk that plastered itself to his face as he began to wave his hand in cheerful greeting.

"T––Team Rocket! Hi! Hi, guys!" Abandoning caution and commonsense, Ash broke into a run to meet the three as they fumbled to extricate themselves from the deflated rubber balloon. His giddiness shocked everyone––Misty couldn't place much blame on his shoulders, though. She was thoroughly _happy _that their rivals had returned––without having to listen to them screech out that tiresome poem or being forced to crush their spirits in defeat by way of a Pokémon skirmish, life itself became dull and worthless.

Shoving James out of her path, Jessie stamped to the edge of the balloon's wicker carrier, her painted lips twisted in a snarl.

"What are you so pleased with, you airhead?" she grunted, but the spark of delight in her cerulean eyes signified how grateful she was to once again be resuming their normal routine of patronizing Ash.

"I've missed you guys!" Ash exclaimed, leaning over to be nearer to Jessie's startled features. His teeth bared in a superfluous grin as his gaze flitted from Jessie, to James, and down to Meowth.

"What's been keeping ya'll away for so long?" he asked, oblivious to the tense atmosphere. Once again slamming her elbow into James's ribs, forgetting that he was still weak with the aftershock of pneumonia, Jessie tilted her chin defiantly.

"It was circumstances, you obnoxious twerp," she spat. "And also,"––an aura of smugness washed over her features as she shot James a self-satisfied wink––"when James went out to eat with your other twerpish friends, he got sick. He's been sick for a month, and it was all your fault. Don't you just feel like the _dickens_?"

Ash frowned, suddenly enveloped in confusion. "What do you mean, 'when he went out with my other twerpish friends'? I haven't seen James in _forever. _And I didn't know he was sick. Is he okay, now? Like... I won't get sick, will I? Should I stand back there?"

Annoyed by the boy's naivete, Jessie scoffed. "You're missing the point. I'm trying to make you upset. You, and those two peanuts over there, made _our _James get sick. Aren't you going to apologize?"

Feeling as though she was doing James an immense favor, Jessie carelessly flicked a strand of red hair over her shoulder and smacked her palms against her wide hips.

"Apologize?" Ash blankly repeated. "Apologize for what? We didn't do anything to hurt you."

The steel in Jessie's eyes froze over as she let her wrath leak out by way of an insulting cry. "You know what you three did! Now tell them to bust their fat backsides over here so they can tell James that they're sorry for making him catch ill!"

Jessie heard a small intonation around her elbow, and jerking to stare down, saw James meekly peering up at her with a small crease of worry marring his smooth forehead. She immediately fell silent, wondering what she had done now.

"Jessie," he softly said, "don't say anything to them. Please. Don't make Brock come over here––I don't want to talk to him now."

"I agree," Meowth added authoritatively, entering the conversation without invitation. "I don't want none of them getting all up in our faces, all right, Jessie? Keep 'em away––we came after 'em today just to peck at their sanity, not for them to terrorize us with their stupidity."

Giving the cat a quizzical scowl, Jessie turned away huffily. "Fine. We'll fight them real quick, then we can go back home. We came out for James, anyway."

Ash's eyebrows knitted in an expression of unawareness. He had not been able to catch any snips of the mumbled exchanges among the members of Team Rocket, but, as he judged solely by Jessie's dark, tight countenance, he could figure that something was not at all right.

"All right, you kids!" Jessie howled suddenly, the sound exploding from her lips to startle everyone. Ash winced knowingly as Jessie drew a single Poké Ball from the side pocket of her skirt, twirling the sphere between her fingers contemplatively.

"Shall we have a short match?" she suggested. "Just for fun? Winner gets the Pikachu for keeps, you know."

Stunned by the abrupt change in mood, Ash clenched his fists in a weak attempt to withhold a whining complaint. Pikachu's whiskers trembled, prickling his ear, and Ash relented to the urge to engage in a heated combat between Pokémon.

"Okay, then!" he replied, jabbing his forefinger in Jessie's direction. "You've done this enough to know what to do already, Pikachu––go ahead with a Thundershock!"

Smirking with satisfaction, Jessie let her body bend in a practiced stance, hurling the gleaming Poké Ball toward Ash. Before the hard plastic rammed into his nose, the sphere split into perfect halves, exposing a blinding flash of red brightness as a serpent-like creature formed in its midst.

"Now, Arbok," Jessie demanded hurriedly in an eager tone, "see how a quick Poison Fang works out against that little rat!"

Not hesitating, the cobra parted its snout in a threatening hiss as it barreled itself toward Pikachu. The blonde rodent crouched low to the ground, its short ears pinned to its scalp as it summoned waves of blue electricity from its fat cheeks to crackle through its fur.

Meowth quickly lost whatever interest he had placed in the battle. He had observed the same scene so many dozens of times that it was no longer amusing nor even slightly entertaining.

"Well, t'at was really fun," he sarcastically announced to James, shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He absentmindedly drew the pad of his paw down his smooth cheek, straightening his unkempt bristles that had been blown about in the gusty breezes.

"I hope Jess hurries," James hastily said, as though he was embarrassed to be seen fussing over the matter. "It's cold out; and anyway, there are things I need to do at home."

"You never work unless you're forced to," Meowth reminded suspiciously. "You'd lie in bed for _weeks _if it meant that you wouldn't have to do anythin'. What made you start itchin' to get out?"

"Got bored," James curtly replied. "And... I'd rather be at home than here. You know how that is," he casually dismissed, flipping his hand carelessly. Meowth glared, a frown bending his mouth as he stubbornly turned back to observe the heated skirmish between Jessie's and Ash's Pokémon.

"Well, it looks like Pikachu's done nearly finished Arbok off," Meowth commentated. "Why ain't you gonna throw out Weezing for a while, huh?"

James groaned. "I _told _you! I don't feel well––and if Jessie's almost done, there's no reason for me to join in. I just want to get out of here."

Before he was given the chance to speak again, both James and Meowth were forcefully expelled from the balloon basket. Arbok's long, thick tail had slammed into the side of the wicker container as it wriggled to escape the agonizing sting of Pikachu's channeled static electricity.

The basket was sent hurling, becoming tangled in the long strings that anchored the Meowth-shaped parachute––as it toppled, its contents spilled over the ground. James tumbled across the uneven earth, yelping each time a protruding object of debris poked into his body, not realizing that several of the painful pricks had been bestowed upon him by Meowth's claws as Meowth clung tightly to his hip.

Misty, who had stood fearfully alongside Brock and fiercely embracing her anxious Togepi, squealed with helpless fright as James rolled against the sturdy leg of the picnic table. She scurried to step away from him as he whined, digging his fingers into the back of his head with his features contorted in a grimace.

"Nnf, oh, dear, Meowth, that smarts like you wouldn't know what," he prattled, cringing at the dull ache that settled firmly in the base of his neck. Meowth's coat of fur had jerked upright, standing on end as he shied from Brock. The Breeder's expression was ironed flat, but there was a sort of resolve present in his eyes as he steadily scooped Meowth up. The cat staged a fake-sounding hiss as he flailed, but there seemed to be little ill intention in Brock's movements.

Misty regarded the way Brock stared down at James, and clutched her Togepi against her chest tightly. For a fleeting moment, she was afraid that Brock wasn't going to offer to help the boy to his feet, and that somehow embarrassed her. Her sneakers squeaked against the dew-speckled grass as she sidestepped, giving Brock a wayward glance. There was an unbearable tension crowding in the atmosphere, and it was intense enough to make Misty succumb to her nervousness.

"Ah, I'm really sorry." She awkwardly smiled, stiffly extending one small white hand toward James as she shifted Togepi to the crook of her other arm. She tensed, wanting to close her eyes against the sensation of James's touch––it startled her to feel how warm his fingers were as they accepted her hand. Heaving James to a somewhat-precarious standing position, Misty quickly looked away as if she had never assisted him.

_Just wait, Brock_, she stormed to herself, sucking air into her mouth to chew angrily on the insides of her cheeks. _As soon as these guys get their annoying selves out of here, you, my friend, are going to be very dead._

Almost as if Brock could hear her thoughts, he chuckled with embarrassment, raising his hand to run his palm over his short, stiff tufts of dark hair. It wasn't the same embarrassment he displayed that Misty was accustomed to––his mood was almost remorseful. It was uncharacteristic for Brock to show himself with a mask of solid maturity, and it affected Misty.

"Excuse me," she said in a muffled voice, and without further hesitation, she spun on her heel, scurrying away to root herself by Ash's side. Though she wasn't eager to watch a troublesome, nerve-wracking battle between her companion and the female counterpart of Team Rocket, Misty would rather fight than be forced to feel like a useless clod between James and Brock.

If Brock noticed that Misty had fled, he gave no hint of having done so. His hold on Meowth was firm, his palm pressed against the cat's flank. Meowth cowered, his almond-shaped eyes enlarged with fear as he watched James's reaction to being nudged into such close range of Brock––Brock, the boy whom he had not seen for a month, and the same one who had forced such tremors of guilt and misery into his own self.

And it was Brock who initiated a volley of speech.

"I haven't seen _you _in a long time," he commented, sliding his fingers into Meowth's undercoat of downy hair. The cat's backbone arched with discomfort as he attempted to avoid Brock's gentle stroking, but there was little room to worm his way free with Brock's strong forearms binding him to his chest.

"I wondered if you were ever going to come back. I can't say that I'm very glad that..." the Breeder let his voice break abruptly. He had intended to make it known that he was, in no way, pleased that Team Rocket had returned, but the memory of his vow to apologize came rushing back to him in a scolding wave. He clicked his teeth into his tongue to silence himself, and he turned his head, staring into the distant clouded peaks of the pastel blue mountains.

James tucked his hands behind his back, feeling his throat contract as a shudder bit into his neck. He shifted from foot to foot, resting his weight on one side to let his hip protrude in a pronounced curve. Brock paid none of his distracted attention to this pose, and only continued to rub Meowth's coarse fur as he evaluated Ash's usage of Pikachu.

"I... I'm... I'm sorry," James blurted, unable to withstand the thickness of the silence. His voice cracked unpleasantly, and he covered the broken note with a discreet huffing cough. His cheeks were burning, and he knew––being perfectly familiar with himself––that it was not the innocent blush of a flirting adolescent girl. His skin had flushed a deep mottled scarlet, the color kissed by shame; remorse, and the guiltiness of unguided actions.

Brock wanted to reply. He wanted to profusely sob out his regret, his tears of preserved sorriness dripping into the grass. He wished so desperately to speak that he was afraid that his calm exterior would shatter into a blubbering mass if he chanced to offer some words of acceptance to James.

Slowly, Brock scraped his gaze over James, remembering how associated he had become with the Rocket's figure that night. Without trying, he could vividly recall each detail that he had discovered. He fiercely curled his hand into Meowth's hindquarters as each odor, flavor, and sensation returned to him.

He could feel the soft, untouched flesh of James's thighs sliding beneath his fingers. He could taste the heated sweetness of James's tongue on his lips, and he could smell the bitter scent of cloves, mint, dirt, and warmth. Each was a color in his thoughts, and it all blended together to paint a beautiful picture of something he never should have seen: a blush on James's face that was meant for no being in the world, except for the one he was to unite with in matrimony. A soft red hue unlike any other in the world, save the blush of one who has just offered up his innocence.

He realized much, much too late the extent of what he had done. That rosy pinkness of youth had darkened James's face––and it had never been anyone's intention for Brock to see that. Brock had viciously stolen a holy, perfect sight that should have been saved for James' wife––and that sight was one of submissive loveliness. The ruffled lavender hair that had been tousled, the emerald eyes brimming with a glaze of euphoria, the pink lips moist and parted by a wet red tongue––Brock should never had pulled that scene into his vision. He had taken it, almost unknowingly, being caressed by bliss and not noticing the consequences that lurked behind him in a sinister shadow of disappointment.

Brock's slit eyes clouded, and before he could scrub them away, fat pearls of clear moisture began to glide down his jawbone. He never wanted _this_––his intelligent, coveted reputation marred by the oily fingerprints of lust. How could he only realize this _now_? When it was too late to jerk his hands away and claim that it had only been an accident?

He didn't know exactly the length of time that he had remained silent, but when he heard a stifled sob, he understood that James was crying, as well. Both had become prey to their thoughts, their barriers of strength being hammered away into worthless rubble. Without even communicating, they had both become eaten by the emotions that were now tied between them.

James bitterly wept, his gloved palms pressed against his closed eyes as liquid seeped from between his fingers. His mourning was not just his mind growing relieved––it was all the regret his soul could spit up. Brock could no longer restrain his own grief as he began to whimper breathlessly into Meowth's back. His hot breath pushed into the Pokémon's fur as his tears rolled haphazardly across the sleek white hairs––each hiccup that leaped from his mouth rent a new hole in his plaintive statement:

"I wasn't prepared for trouble."

* * *

><p><strong>THE END<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Editing this made me sad. I don't like being sad. I took a quiz and apparently I'm shallow. Say what.


End file.
